FINDING HIMSELF
by Minisinoo
Summary: The-Boy-Who-Almost-Died has to figure out what it means that he didn't. Harry's tumultuous 5th year at Hogwarts is Cedric's 7th and final. Bound together by shared trauma, both boys fall under Ministry suspicion ... Who is Cedric Diggory? Cedric!Lives AU
1. The Portkey

**Introductory Author's Note:** _Finding Himself_ will be uploaded regularly across the next few weeks. It's a bit of an experiment to see how a story like this does here. It's a full-scale novel, an AU rewrite of Book 5 (_Order of the Phoenix_), and was completed about 2 years ago -- so it's not a new story. It's been posted on my website, to several Live Journal communities, and appears on a couple archives. It's won a total of 7 awards. I've been asked to post it more widely, however (outside LJ), so I'm looking for venues

That is NOT 'blackmail' for reviews, as I don't approve of such things. But I am looking closely at how it's received, whether it's read and reviewed, etc. As I said, it's an experiment. Formatting stories -- especially these long, multi-chapter novels -- for fanfic-net is actually difficult for me, so if there aren't many readers, I'd direct them to my website, where they can find it in full (with images even). :-) If there are a lot of readers here, I'd be happy to format it. So tell me what you think!

* * *

"Harry!"

To say he was terrified as hedge roots wrapped him up and tried to drag him under would have been a vast understatement. He could feel hard plant-fingers clutching at him, twining around his arms and legs as he fought. "_Har_ry!"

Panting now and trying not to whimper, he shouted again, "_Harry!" _It came out increasingly desperate with each cry. He sounded more like seven than seventeen, and was humiliated.

He'd been scared before during the tournament -- piss-his-underpants scared -- but able to think still. He was a good planner, and could keep his head under pressure, or at least, under certain kinds of pressure. In a real crisis, it all went south, and he should never have entered this tournament. It wasn't a chess match or a debate. He might have liked to say that he'd bowed to the wishes of his father and housemates, but was too honest. It hadn't even been the lure of eternal glory. In truth, the attention embarrassed him a bit.

He'd entered to prove something to _himself_ -- to defeat his own fear, overcome his tendency to fly apart when it mattered. He'd entered because he'd had an easy life -- and felt guilty for it. He'd entered because he was tired of the sidelong glances when he said his house was Hufflepuff. He'd entered because he'd been called "Pretty boy Diggory" once too often. He wanted to earn something for _himself_, not have it handed to him because of his parents' love (much as he realized his good fortune to have it), or because of his pretty face, or even because he was clever. He wanted to earn something by sheer guts. That was why he'd become a Quidditch Seeker, although really too tall for the position. And it was why he'd let the rest of his House talk him into putting his name in that blasted cup.

Now the hedges were pulling him under and he couldn't think, he was so scared. Only plead. Plead with the boy he'd just been shoving around while trying to get to the cup first. "_Harry!_"

"_Reducto!_"

At the other boy's voice -- higher but firm -- the roots suddenly relaxed, but he couldn't make himself stop fighting them. He kicked and pushed and bit his tongue to keep from screaming, even though he knew he was actually making it harder to clear them off, and could feel Harry's hands helping to untangle him. Once free, he stood on shaky legs and tried to keep from vomiting from sheer delayed disgust at the memory of all those roots pulling him down. "Thanks."

"No problem."

Cedric almost smiled at the banality of the exchange, and tried to make a joke to conceal the fact he was still trembling, "You know, for a moment there, I thought you were going to let it get me."

"For a moment there, so did I." Harry seemed startled by his own admission.

Yet Cedric would always be grateful to the boy for answering so, almost as grateful as for saving him in the first place. It had been an honest answer, acknowledging but not commenting on the fact that Cedric had been tripped in the first place while trying to keep Harry behind him as they both ran for the cup. He'd been pumped so full of anger and driving ambition, all he'd wanted was to keep the little Gryffindor glory-hound from taking this prize, too. It had stripped him raw, down to the unpleasant, ugly underbelly. The fact the Bulgarian had tried to hex him was only what had set the testosterone to pumping; the underlying _anger_ it had dislodged had been far deeper, the result of time after time of swallowing his irritation and putting a good face on something. One of Cedric's other hidden faults was a terrible temper when poked hard enough through the bars of his tightly controlled exterior.

Dumbledore had warned them that the maze changed people. Cedric didn't think it had changed him, only shown him for who he really was.

He didn't like that person.

So the roots had pulled down the right boy -- he didn't deserve the cup. And now, shamed, he avoided Harry's eyes, still breathing hard. "Some game, huh?" It was all he could think to say.

"Some game," Harry agreed, but with something in his voice that spoke of anger, perhaps with Cedric, perhaps with the larger situation -- or both. Cedric wouldn't blame the kid if it were both.

Then the creaking started up again, and the wind, and their narrow aisle was closing. Gripping Harry by the arm, Cedric shoved him forward. "Go!"

They ran -- together, this time, not against each other, exploding out at the end of the leafy corridor into the little clearing where the cup glowed blue on its pedestal. Cedric skidded to a stop. So did Harry.

And in that moment, Cedric knew what he had to do. He _didn't_ deserve the cup. When push had come to shove, he'd literally shoved a kid three years younger than he was behind him in a race for a trinket of silver and crystal, yet when he'd fallen, that same kid had come back for him.

"Go on, take it!" he shouted to Harry over the sound of the wind behind them. "You saved me -- take it!" He wasn't being noble. He was being honest, or trying, even if it killed him inside.

But Harry was looking behind them, back into the maze, and didn't respond for an instant. Then -- to Cedric's astonishment -- he said, "Together." And didn't give Cedric time to protest before counting off, "One, two --"

Astonishment faded quickly. "Three!" Cedric finished together with Harry even as they rushed forward. As one, their fingers closed over the cup's two handles.

Cedric expected it all to end -- a sudden, bewitched calm as soon as one of the champions had touched the cup. It would be over. They'd have a party -- Hufflepuff and Gryffindor together, maybe. A big celebration. A Hogwarts victory.

So Cedric was thinking about _food,_ of all things, when he felt something -- some power -- yank him off his feet and he was falling, falling through space -- too startled and unprepared to land gracefully. He came down hard on his back, the wind knocked out of him and the cup tossed free of his hand. Still glowing, it rolled down a little incline.

For just a moment, Cedric did nothing but breathe, cough, and stare up at the night sky. Harry, who'd landed on his knees, recovered faster, pushing himself up. "You okay?" Cedric asked him.

"Yeah. You?"

Cedric didn't answer, just climbed to his feet as well, and looked around at ancient, tilted tombstones. There was a crypt nearby, and just behind them, a large statue of the Grim Reaper. A bit disturbing, that. As he and Harry both seemed unharmed, Cedric's natural curiosity replaced immediate alarm. They were both alive and out of that damn maze -- no rising hedges around him, no creeping sense of claustrophobia. "Where are we?" Was this still part of the Third Task?

He and Harry began pacing off in different directions to explore. Cedric could hear Harry mutter, "I've been here before."

Walking over to the cup, Cedric knelt to look at it -- careful not to touch it. "It's a Portkey," he said, comprehension dawning. Maybe he should have realized as much sooner, but he'd had his wits addled by the completely unexpected result of touching the cup. Then he grinned. This _was_ still part of the Third Task; it must be. "Harry," he called, "the cup is a Portkey."

"I've been here before -- in a dream," the boy replied, almost interrupting him. He sounded scared.

Rising, Cedric went to rejoin Harry near the Reaper statue, alarmed himself by the fear in the kid's voice. Harry didn't shake easily -- less easily than Cedric -- but he sounded utterly terrified right now, and Cedric's momentary relief and euphoria disappeared like smoke. "Cedric," Harry called, "we have to get back to the cup. Now!"

"What are you talking about?" But he was distracted by two things -- a large cauldron that he hadn't noticed until just that moment, sitting incongruously in the middle of the graveyard, and a sudden creaking, like a door opening. Yellow lamplight spilled out into the darkness, and Cedric glanced towards the old crypt. Someone had emerged from it.

Next to Cedric, Harry cried out even as a fire ignited beneath the mystery-cauldron. "Harry!" Cedric called, turning back to the boy, who was bent double, one hand gripping his forehead. Cedric leaned down. "What is it?"

"Get back to the cup!" Harry yelled, looking up at him -- face full of a terror.

And in that instant, Cedric _knew_ this was not a game. Not part of the Task at all. Someone had made that cup into a Portkey to bring the tournament champion here.

To bring _Harry Potter_ here.

Pieces snapped together in Cedric's brain in rapid progression. (No one had ever called him slow.) While still in the maze, he'd heard Fleur scream, and had seen red sparks go up; he'd known she was out. Then he'd been attacked himself by Krum -- who Harry had said was bewitched -- and Cedric would have bet money that Krum had taken out Fleur, earlier. That was three champions of four who, by hook or crook, hadn't been _meant_ to reach the cup.

Leaving only Harry.

Yet _Harry_ should never have been in the tournament in the first place -- had claimed all along that he hadn't entered. Cedric hadn't believed him at first, and later, had only half believed.

Now, he _believed_. Harry Potter wasn't a Triwizard Champion. He was a somebody's _target_.

Jumping to his feet, Cedric spun, planting himself squarely in front of Harry, wand out and leveled at the approaching man in the dark cloak. "Who are you? What do you want?" They'd have to go through him to get to the kid, and he finally, truly _felt _like the Hogwart's Champion.

He heard, "Kill the spare," in the same instant Harry screamed from behind him, "Cedric, run!"

Instinct saved him. He reacted to Harry's warning, leaping sideways even as the man shouted, "_Avada Kedavra_," and green light shot out of the other wand.

Cedric landed hard on already bruised ribs, reaching for Harry to shove him ahead -- back to the cup. The Portkey. Safety.

He got a handful of Harry's tunic, but his inconvenient terror took over again, snatching away thought. He'd put his back to the attacking wizard, too, and his own wand was under him. Stupid. Harry was in so much pain he was useless, and Cedric scrambled, scratching at the dirt with his wand hand to get himself up, other hand still holding onto Harry's tunic.

_"Avada Kedavra!_" he heard behind him again, and crying out, he rolled left -- yanking Harry after. The two of them tumbled down the grassy embankment to land behind a cockeyed tombstone.

"It's Voldemort," Harry hissed as they came to a stop, his hand still pressed to his forehead. Cedric didn't ask the boy how he knew that. This wasn't the time for analysis, but dear God, if it _was_ You-Know-Who . . .

How could a pair of schoolboys stand against the greatest wizard and necromancer in recent history?

"Shit, shit, shit, shit, _shit,_" he muttered as he heard the steady crunch of their attacker's approaching feet, and he gripped his wand so tightly, it cut into his palm. But he didn't know if he could manage to raise it when the moment came.

"I'll distract him -- you get back to the cup!" Harry said.

"I can't leave you --"

"Get back to the cup! Bring Dumbledore!" And Harry was moving before Cedric could protest again, leaping over Cedric's hunched form, wand out as he came around the tombstone to catch their attacker by surprise. "_Expelliarmus!_" he shouted.

Still, Cedric hesitated. Run or stay, run or stay?

_You think too much_, said a little voice inside his head. Harry didn't think. He acted. That's why he was in Gryffindor. And Cedric wasn't.

Leaping to his feet, Cedric spun and ran.

For the Portkey.

Behind him, he could hear the sounds of battle, but didn't look back. He just ran flat out, using every inch of his long legs to reach that key. He had to reach the key.

_You're leaving a little boy behind you to fight Voldemort,_ he thought to himself.

_Coward._

He didn't stop. He could see the cup's blue glow even as he heard a man's voice shout behind, "_Crucio!_" -- and Harry's scream.

Cedric leapt, dived, and landed beside the cup -- grabbing it.

The force of the magic sucked him away from the battle even as he squeezed his eyes shut, trying to ignore the sound of Harry's agony.

The key spit him out on the grass in front of the stands full of people. He sobbed in relief -- and horror. Horror at what he'd just done. Abandoned a boy to Voldemort.

_Coward!_

Huffle_puff_ball.

He flung the cup away from him, back into the maze. It rolled under a hedge where no one would accidentally touch it.

Out-of-breath and sobbing in self-hatred, he dragged himself up on his knees, even as the stands erupted all around him, the applause deafening.

_"DIG-GO-RY! DIG-GO-RY!"_

"_Dumbledore!_" he gasped -- but he had no wind, and no voice, certainly not to shout over the swelling ruckus and terrible stitch in his side. He could feel every rib he'd bruised -- and maybe a few he'd broken.

Then he felt hands on him -- rough, yanking him up. Turning his head, he looked into an angry, blue glass eye. Could glass eyes be angry? Certainly, the other eye was, the lips pulled back from stained teeth in a near growl. Moody, of course. The man gave Cedric the creeps, and he yanked away instinctively. "Dumbledore," he said again, still with no wind.

And now there were others all around him, his father pounding his back (and driving half the breath out that he'd just regained), his mother hugging him, then Cho. He tried shoving them away, frantic. "Don't, don't! Dumbledore! I need --"

Moody had him by the elbow and yanked him sideways, hissing in his ear, "Where's Potter?"

"Graveyard," Cedric replied. "Get me Dumbledore. Now. It's Voldemort!"

Had he really just said that name aloud?

But he didn't have time for games. Or for people trying to congratulate him for nothing he'd earned -- grinning people, laughing people. But a boy was being tortured somewhere miles away and he, Cedric, had left him there in order to get help. "Get off!" he shouted, striking out around himself in a rage . . . for his failure. He'd run, not stood his ground.

_What were you supposed to do? _the cold logic in his mind asked. _Stay put and die?_

_Yes! _he retorted.

_So he'd have killed you and_ then _tortured Harry._

_Shut up_, he told the voice, still pushing blindly at the people all around him -- who seemed to have realized finally that he was honestly _angry_, not just excited. They drew back, muttering in confusion. "What is it, son?" his father asked, even as Fudge pushed through as well. The Minister of Magic was trying to lift Cedric's arm over his head in victory, but Cedric yanked it down and barely restrained himself from belting Fudge.

"_Stop it!_" he yelled, voice finally returned enough to get sound out.

"Where's the cup?" Fudge asked him, confused by his obvious anger.

"Don't touch the cup! Don't _any_body touch that cup!" He looked around for Moody. "Where's Dumbledore?" Hadn't Moody gone to get Dumbledore?

"What happened?" people were asking him. "What's wrong with the cup?"

"Where's DUMBLEDORE!" he roared, voice catching on the name so that he choked and coughed, bent over. He was trying to pull away from their grasping hands again. They were holding him back. How much time had passed? A minute? Two? More like three or four, and he was surrounded by _idiots_. How long could a person survive the torture curse without losing his mind? "Dumbledore," he coughed out again, like a skipping record, but dammit, no one was _listening_ to him.

He felt a small hand grip his bicep and he tried to shake it off, but a pale, serious face got down right in front of him, a girl with bushy hair. Granger -- Potter's friend. The bright one. "Where's Harry?" she asked. She didn't look confused. She looked scared.

Thank heaven somebody had finally caught on. "Graveyard," he said. "Cup was a Portkey. They wanted Harry. Where's Dumbledore? I came back to get Dumbledore. It's Voldemort."

She ducked away, quick as a cat. The noise was dying down, too -- or really, changing in timber as those nearest him began to realize this wasn't a victory or celebration. Fudge was calling out to the other teachers to keep the people away, send them back to the castle. And Cedric still hadn't seen Dumbledore, but he'd relaxed a little now that he'd gotten his message across. Moody and the Granger girl would get Dumbledore for him, then they'd go back for Harry.

Both his parents were gripping him, as if afraid to let go. They'd picked up -- as parents' did -- that he was terrified, and upset, and that something had gone terribly wrong. "Sit down, Ced," his father was saying. "You're about to faint."

He started to sit as instructed, but found himself face-to-face with Potter's other friend, Ron Weasley, along with the twins and the little Weasley girl behind. Ron's face was thunderous. "Where's Harry?"

"He's in the graveyard," Cedric said, suddenly exhausted as the adrenaline began to drain out of him. "I came back for Dumbledore. He sent me back for Dumbledore."

"You _left him_?" Ron bellowed.

Cedric winced, guilty all over again in the face of Ron's rage. And then, before he could even think to duck, Weasley hit him -- hard -- in the jaw, knocking him backwards onto his arse as onlookers gasped.

"You bloody _bastard_!"

"Ronald!" someone yelled -- a girl's voice. Maybe the sister, or -- no -- it was Granger back. She was holding off Ron -- and the twins, too. Cedric's own mother was restraining his father.

"Stop it!" McGonagall shouted, striding into the midst of them. She knelt in front of Cedric. "What happened?"

"The cup was a Portkey," Cedric said. "I came back to get Dumbledore." He glanced up at Granger. "Where is he?"

"Not anywhere in the crowd," Granger replied.

"Dammit!" Cedric shoved himself to his feet to lunge away -- back towards the hedge where he'd thrown the cup. If he couldn't find Dumbledore, he'd go back himself.

Arms gripped and restrained him, though he tried to shake them off. "Let me _go_!"

"Cedric! Cedric!" his father was shouting to calm him down, and McGonagall, too, along with Professor Sprout, who'd come over. "It's all right, Diggory!" McGonagall shouted right in his face. "Professor Dumbledore went with Professor Moody."

Cedric let out his breath and stopped struggling.

"Both of them went into the maze to find Harry," McGonagall continued. "I'm sure he's still lost. They'll be back in a --"

"NO!" Cedric bellowed and tore free of the hands on him, which had relaxed when he had. He was sprinting back for the hedge before they could grab him again, knocking people aside as he ran for the maze. Just as in the graveyard, everything was coming together in his head, creating a horrible picture of what must have happened. "Professor Dumbledore!" he shouted. "Professor! It's Moody! Don't trust Moody!"

He had no idea if Dumbledore could hear him, knowing how the maze killed sound once one was inside. And had it really been bright to call out to Dumbledore that Moody couldn't be trusted?

Dumbledore had told them that Moody had put the cup in the maze, and it must have been _Moody_ who'd turned it into a Portkey. That's why he'd been angry when he'd seen Cedric come back with the cup -- alone. Cedric hadn't been meant to reach it; Harry had. Yet Cedric had told Moody exactly what he'd wanted to hear. Harry was still in the graveyard. So Moody had lured off Dumbledore into the maze to keep him from talking to Cedric.

Tearing down a corridor between bushes, Cedric found that -- just as he remembered -- sound faded behind him, cut off. The leaves began to whisper again. They must be keyed to human presence, not the Third Task specifically, but he didn't have time for ornery hedges. Pointing his wand at first one, then the other, he called, "_Stupefy!" _It wasn't the most elegant choice, but the bushes turned silent and still, like a normal hedge. He ran on, trying now to be silent himself. Every few feet, he paused to listen, occasionally stunning the plants again when they seemed to be regaining life.

Finally, he heard voices in the distance. He couldn't be sure if it were Moody and Dumbledore; it might be the other teachers come after _him_. He made his way carefully down the corridor towards the sound until he could make out Dumbledore's high, old-man's voice saying, "I should think we'd have found him by now, Alastor." A pause, then, "Harry! Harry! The task is over! Follow my voice."

But it was Cedric, not Harry, who followed the voice. Sneaking down to a T in the maze, hand still on his wand (he hadn't let it go), he peered around the edge.

Dumbledore and Moody were standing there -- thankfully looking in the opposite direction.

Cedric had his wand out and pointed at Moody before either were aware of him. "_Expelliarmus!_" he shouted, and bright white light exploded from his wandtip, catching Moody square in the back and sending the man's wand flying from his hand as his body was lifted a foot in the air and thrown forward onto his face.

That took care of Moody, at least momentarily. But Cedric hadn't prepared for what happened next. Dumbledore spun around, arm snapping out with his _own_ wand, aimed right at Cedric, who felt himself frozen right where he stood. Dumbledore glanced down at Moody, then hurried over to Cedric, peering carefully into Cedric's eyes as if searching for something, then -- wand still held out carefully -- he stepped back and released Cedric from the freezing charm.

"Moody tricked you!" Cedric shouted as soon as his tongue was his own again. "Tricked us! Harry's not in the maze!" Words came tumbling out of him in a rush, no pause for breath. "The cup was a Portkey; it took us to a graveyard -- we both grabbed the cup together and it took us to a graveyard. Harry said Voldemort was there and sent me back to get you, but Moody was the one who spelled the cup, and I told him first when I got back and he tricked you and --"

"Where's the cup now?" Dumbledore asked, interrupting Cedric's babbling, one hand gripping Cedric's shoulders, his blue eyes intense. Dumbledore believed him.

"I threw it under a bush when I got back," Cedric said, "So no one would grab it accidentally. It's under one of the hedges right where we first went into the maze -- Harry and I."

"Let's go," Dumbledore said, and turning, he pointed his wand at Moody's unconscious form, which was immediately wrapped up in roots -- Cedric knew firsthand how tightly those held -- then Dumbledore turned the wand on the hedges themselves, parting them like the Red Sea. A wide aisle opened, leading right back towards the stands.

Dumbledore had known where he was in the maze the whole time, and despite everything, Cedric retained wit enough to be impressed.

Then they were running again, or jogging really; Dumbledore wasn't young. And everything was going to be okay now that he'd found Dumbledore. It had to be okay.

If anything happened to Harry, Cedric would never forgive himself.

They'd reached the maze edge, and the cup -- bared now. Dumbledore threw out his hands. "Nobody touch it!" There was still a small crowd there, gathered where Cedric had left them, including his parents, Cho, Fudge, McGonagall and the Weasleys. Dumbledore turned to Cedric. "What else can you tell me? You're certain it was Voldemort?"

And suddenly Cedric wasn't so sure. "I don't know. Harry said it was. He was gripping his scar and he said it was Voldemort. I didn't exactly argue. The bloke was trying to kill me."

"And you left him there!" Ron Weasley bellowed again from the sidelines, ready to rush Cedric once more.

"Peace, Ron," Dumbledore said, almost mildly, raising a hand in Ron's direction. "Cedric did exactly what he should have done. He came for help." He turned back to Cedric. "Anything else? Was there anyone else that you saw? Quickly!"

"No." Cedric shook his head. "Just the man. He was carrying something, I think. I didn't get a good look at it; I was trying to drag Harry away. Then we were behind a tombstone. Wait! There was one other strange thing -- a cauldron. There was a big cauldron. The man -- Voldemort, I guess -- started a fire under it just before he tried cursing me."

Dumbledore turned from Cedric and motioned to Professor McGonagall. "We must hurry. Minerva, I hate to ask --"

"Of course."

Arthur Weasley had pushed forward as well, "And me."

Dumbledore just nodded at them as they joined him near the cup. "Wands at the ready -- on the count of three," he said. "One, two, --"

And without stopping to think for once -- just acting -- Cedric bent forward with the others, his fingers gripping the edge of the cup, too, his other hand tight on his own wand.

He was going back there.

"Three!"

* * *

Later, Cedric would wonder what -- exactly -- he'd thought he might accomplish, going back with the adults. It had been guilt-motivated, not logic-motivated, and he became a liability, not a help --

-- something Dumbledore let him know the moment they released the Portkey (all on their feet, as they'd been prepared). "What on earth possessed you, Mr. Diggory?" Dumbledore snapped, even as he and the other two turned, wands at the ready. "Get behind a tombstone and stay out of the way!"

Guilty at distracting Dumbledore for even a few precious seconds, Cedric ducked behind the great monument of the reaper where he and Harry had first come out. With three trained, adult wizards, Voldemort clearly wasn't worrying over a student. Cedric was forgotten.

But he had a good view of what was happening.

Harry -- looking battered and bloody -- had squared off against a white-faced man bearing slits for a nose and red eyes. And _that_, Cedric knew, was Voldemort. Whoever the other man had been earlier, it hadn't been Voldemort himself. Yet Harry hadn't been wrong, either. Impossibly, Voldemort _was_ here.

And he was playing cat-and-mouse with Harry Potter. They'd been engaged in a _duel_ -- utterly absurd, on the face of it. 'The Boy Who Lived' or not, how could Harry hope to stand against _Voldemort_? Yet there he was -- back straight, wand out, defiant to the end. Harry deserved his reputation, Cedric thought. He'd never underestimate the kid again.

Surrounding the two duelers were figures in robes and masks who Cedric recognized from the Quidditch World Cup -- Death Eaters. They weren't interfering. No doubt, they didn't think they'd need to. Cedric counted their number, but couldn't be sure of the identity of any except . . .

Long, blond hair. Arched nose.

Lucius Malfoy.

Not that Cedric was surprised in the least. He knew the Malfoys rather better than he'd have liked, and would've been more surprised had Lucius _not_ been a Death Eater.

Dumbledore's appearance upset the proceedings, shattering the bright arc of light that seemed to be connecting Harry's wand to Voldemort's (and what kind of spell was _that_?), throwing Harry backwards. Voldemort spun from his torture of Harry to face the one wizard in all the world of whom he was actually afraid. "Dumbledore!" he cried, as if delighted by this unexpected turn of events. "Welcome to my _re_birth party!"

"Let Harry go, Tom," Dumbledore said in a quiet tone that raised the hairs on the back of Cedric's neck. "You've got what you wanted."

Voldemort didn't reply, just aimed his wand at Dumbledore and a curse flashed green from it.

But Dumbledore wasn't there. Neither were Professor McGonagall nor Mr. Weasley. They'd all leapt aside for cover, and suddenly the air was awash with the bright light of curses and hexes, and Cedric -- who'd never seen a real wizard's battle -- hunkered down with hands over his head, certain he was about to die. But after three breaths, he regained his courage and peeked around the side of the reaper.

The Death Eaters may have been unwilling to interfere in a duel between their master and a boy, but this was a different matter. They'd moved in to protect the Dark Lord and Cedric saw one go down, hit accidentally by friendly fire. The figure's half-mask slipped off, leaving the dead man's face staring up at the sky.

Cedric had never seen anybody killed before. Neither, he thought, had Harry -- who'd fallen on his arse in shock -- and to stay out of the way of the curses. Lucius Malfoy was advancing on him, seizing the opportunity while Dumbledore had Voldemort engaged -- and Harry didn't see him coming. Malfoy had his wand out, face twisted with a sneering hatred.

Once again, Cedric didn't think. He acted. So Dumbledore had told him to stay hidden, but if he didn't do something _right now_, Harry would be dead.

Leaping out from behind the reaper, he ran low to the ground. Thank God for long legs. In eight steps he had a completely startled Harry by the waist and was pulling him back, out of Malfoy's way. Dumbledore must have had eyes in the back of his head because -- despite the furious contest of hexes with Voldemort -- he shouted, "Use the Portkey, Cedric!"

Cedric didn't have to be told twice. Nor did he think about the fact he was leaving Dumbledore and the other two behind. They were adults; they could Apparate. So could he, for that matter -- but Harry couldn't. Still clutching Harry to him, the fingers of his free hand closed over the cup handle and he felt two things simultaneously.

First was the (now almost familiar) tickle-yank of dislocation.

The second was a searing agony in his lower back and legs the like of which he'd never experienced in his life. His lower body was on _fire_, or so it felt.

Then he and Harry landed together smack in the middle of the Task arena, Cedric on his back and Harry on his knees again. Cedric wasn't thinking about the irony of their postures, however. He couldn't think at all. Body-wracking agony arched his entire frame rigid and he screamed, his hands tearing mindlessly at the base of his spine.

Fortunately, he blacked out only a moment later.

* * *

Cedric woke to weeping**:** his mother's, soft and painful in its hopelessness -- all the more so in that she so rarely wept. He'd have liked to sit up and tell her not to cry, that he was all right . . . but couldn't. His body simply wouldn't obey him. He should have been alarmed by that, but seemed incapable of _any_ intense feeling, and they must have given him a serious pain potion that numbed everything, not just his body.

So he went back to sleep.

In fact, he drifted in and out of consciousness for a while. Sometimes there were people around him, sometimes not. He was aware of conversations held over his prone form, but couldn't summon the energy to be interested. When he finally found himself able to open his eyes and keep them open more than a moment, it was dark outside, but this time, there was no weeping at his bedside. Turning his head, he could see his mother's tall form in a chair beside him. It had been spelled to produce arms and a foot rest, and even reclined so she could sleep while staying nearby. He smiled fondly at that. Every memory he had of childhood illness, she'd been there, a constant in his life. His father doted on him, sometimes unduly, but his mother was the one he turned to for both comfort and genuine support -- in large part because she didn't necessarily shield him. He loved his father, but he _trusted_ his mother.

He hated to disturb her now, but suspected she'd want to be disturbed. Besides, he had to know what had happened after he and Harry had come home by Portkey. "Mum?" he whispered.

She was instantly awake and right there at his side, the leather chair squeaking as she leaned in. "Cedric?" She smoothed his hair off his forehead.

"How's Harry?"

"Harry's fine."

"And Dumbledore? McGonagall --"

"Fine. All fine. Arthur Weasley, too."

"What happened to Vol- . . . You-Know Who?" He used the euphemism for her sake, not his. Saying Voldemort's name, or thinking it, no longer scared him.

"He Disapparated," she told him, "as soon as you and Harry 'ported away."

Cedric nodded just slightly; he wasn't surprised by that. Without Harry there, Voldemort wouldn't have wanted to stick around to tangle with Dumbledore. "Somebody hit me with something, didn't they?" he asked now. "On the way out, somebody hit me with a hex?"

"You're alive," his mother said, stroking his hair and cheek. "You're alive, and everything will be all right."

But she hadn't, Cedric noticed, said that _he_ was 'all right.'

"Go back to sleep. Right now, what you need most is rest."

Cedric woke again when it was morning -- late morning, judging by the angle of the sun through the windows. His mother was still there, and his father now, too, and --

"Esiban!"

A familiar whiskery face was peering into his, and despite everything, Cedric laughed as Esiban climbed his chest to his shoulder, and thence to his characteristic perch squarely on Cedric's head. "They said he was crying incessantly," his father explained. "Your girlfriend Cho tried to take him, but he wasn't happy with her, either. Madam Pomfrey didn't want him in hospital, but Dumbledore overruled her. He thought you both might benefit."

"Madam Pomfrey doesn't want him here because she's afraid he'll get into all her medicines." Cedric glanced around. "Did you bring his cage? I'll have to lock him up at night, for his own good, or he _will_ get into something."

"It's there," his father said, pointing, even as Cedric spotted the cage on a table pulled up to the left of his bed's head. They'd had to drag in something large enough to accommodate the size, but Cedric could reach it just by turning a little and leaning over. The bed itself was surrounded by cards and flowers. And sweets. Laughing a bit, he reached out to grab a bag of Bertie Bott's Every Flavor Beans -- but he fed them to Esiban, who wouldn't care if he got a snot- or spinach-flavored one. Food was food, to him, and he nibbled the jellybeans daintily, holding each one in little brown paws.

"So -- do I want to know what day it is? And when can I get out of here?"

His parents exchanged a 'serious' look -- which alarmed him a bit, but he tried to pretend he hadn't noticed. His father scooted forward in his chair, hands clasped between his knees. "You've been in here four days, unconscious for most of it."

Four days? But that meant, "Tonight's the End-of-Term Feast. Is Madam Pomfrey going to let me go? I feel fine."

That look again. "Cedric --"

But before his father could continue, Madam Pomfrey bustled in. "I heard your voice." She handed him a cup. "Drink. It saves me pouring it down your throat and wasting half."

"Yes, Madam Pomfrey." He drank, and tried not to make a face. Then he handed it back and asked, "Can I go now?"

Her mouth opened slightly and she, too, turned to exchange a significant glance with his parents. This was getting worse and worse. "Cedric -- you're not ready to be released quite yet."

Snatching Esiban off his head because little claws digging into his scalp were starting to grow quite annoying, he asked, "What's wrong?" He turned to his parents -- his mother. "What's wrong, Mother?" She'd tell him, even if everybody else avoided it. It had always been so. His father would praise him to the stars. His mother told him if he had bad breath, or his shirt was untucked -- or he couldn't carry a tune in a bucket (which was unfortunately true). She didn't do it to criticize, but because she loved him enough to be honest.

Both Madam Pomfrey and Cedric's father were looking at her, too, though her eyes were lowered to the long, pale hands she'd turned palm up in her lap. "Lucy --" Amos began.

"He needs to know," she snapped, then raised her head and met his eyes. "The spell was a degenerative curse of some kind. It's affecting your nervous system from where it struck your spine on down your legs."

Throat dry and belly sick, he asked, "What does that mean? Degenerative?"

His mother started to answer, then shut her mouth and looked up at Madam Pomfrey. Her pale blue eyes were wet -- his strong, proud mother couldn't go on. And that scared him most of all.

Madam Pomfrey spoke softly. "Essentially, it's begun to kill the nerves in your legs and pelvic region. That's why you were in such terrible pain."

What? "But I feel all right, now." It was an expression of denial as much as of confusion.

"You feel all right," Madam Pomfrey told him, "because I've put a paralyzing charm on your lower body. Otherwise, you'd be in excruciating pain."

He remembered what he'd felt when he and Harry had returned, and he _never_ wanted to feel anything like that again. "The . . . nerves are dying? It's going to paralyze me?"

"Perhaps eventually, but not tomorrow, or next week, either. It may -- probably will -- take _years_. It's simply such a rare type of curse, very little is known about it. I don't think it's been cast in over fifty years." Pomfrey looked across his bed to his parents. "We're sending you to St. Mungo's. We were just waiting for you to wake up; Professor Dumbledore thought you might be more comfortable hearing the news in a familiar place."

Comfortable hearing the news? He was losing his legs and that was going to be comfortable news anywhere? His face must have relayed his devastation, as she went on, "Healing has progressed a lot since the last time this curse was employed, Cedric. A reversal may still be possible -- quite possible, these days -- and the healers at St. Mungo's are far better equipped than I to find a cure. I've just kept it from progressing more rapidly. That's the other reason for the paralyzing spell."

"Fantastic," he muttered, "I'm a test case." But this was mostly to cover the plain shock. "Can I walk at all? I mean, if the paralyzing spell weren't there?"

"I'm not sure," Madam Pomfrey said, fidgeting needlessly with the blanket covering his lower body -- which, he realized now, he didn't _feel_. He hadn't noticed before simply because he hadn't thought to pay attention. Reaching down, he poked at his torso and legs to see how far feeling went. It stopped just at his hips -- about where he remembered the curse striking his back.

He didn't want to think about what they were doing to keep him from wetting his bed.

"You'd still have feeling in your lower body," Madam Pomfrey was saying. "And some range of motion; it's hard to say how much. Probably a decent amount at this point in time."

"So I could still walk."

"Quite possibly, and almost certainly with assistance."

"You mean crutches."

"Yes."

Merlin's beard. Neither his parents nor Madam Pomfrey said anything else, as if waiting for what he'd do next, say next -- but he didn't want to say anything. His parents must have had several days to get used to the news. He'd had a handful of minutes. "Could I -- could I be alone for a bit?"

Madam Pomfrey nodded once and departed. His parents were slower to leave, though when he just _looked_ at them, his father nodded and walked away, went over to stare out a window, hands in pockets. His mother bent to kiss his cheek; her face wet. Then she, too, walked away, pulling the screen around his bed to give him some privacy.

Rolling on his side, he gripped Esiban in his arms and buried his face in bristly fur. At first, he felt mostly sick from fear of what might happen to him now -- unable to summon up a proper sorrow. But gradually, the sobs came, tearing hard out of his gut. He wanted to cry quietly, privately, and bit the back of his hand, but his weeping was too rough. After a minute, he heard the ward door close and he knew, in that way people do, that he was truly alone. He let the grief take him then, Esiban curled up in the hollow at his side, head on Cedric's heaving ribs.

* * *

**  
Endnotes:** The book mentions that Cedric is a pretty smart cookie, and even if the film never said as much directly, I've kept that assumption. Yes, the 'curse' cast on Cedric has certain similarities to Multiple Sclerosis and Guillain-Barre Syndrome in that it deals with a damaged central nervous system and is degenerative. But it separates from them in that it does not affect his entire body, and progresses more quickly. Not to mention it's not a _disease_. Please presume events in the short story found here on -- "The Way I See It" -- for a bit of history on Cedric.


	2. Racoons and Apologies

Harry and Ron were both dragging their feet, and Hermione turned to glare at them. "Hurry up! The Feast will start soon, and I doubt we'll be allowed in to visit afterwards."

So, the three of them mounted the last stairs onto the landing in front of the hospital ward. The summer sun on the horizon shot light through a window and scattered gold across the hardwood floor making Hermione squint against the glare. Opening the ward door, she peered in, just to be sure no one was there -- or at least, not Cedric's parents. Weighed down by guilt, Harry had refused to go up if the Diggorys were present, despite the fact Mrs. Diggory had made a point of seeking him out earlier to tell him she didn't blame him for what had happened. But that was Harry for you -- he was inclined to take on the weight of the whole world like Atlas. Hermione knew that he'd been equally reluctant to see Cedric, but unlike Harry, Hermione had done her research, catching Cho in a hallway to find out how Cedric was, and whether he might want a visit. Cho had seemed to think it an excellent idea. According to her -- having had it straight from Cedric's mother -- the first question Cedric had asked upon waking was, 'How's Harry?'

So Hermione had poked and prodded and nagged until Harry had agreed to go and visit Cedric -- as long as Cedric's parents weren't around. Then she'd turned her guilt trip on Ron until he agreed to come, too, and apologize for belting Cedric on the field after the Third Task. Keeping a lookout all afternoon, Hermione had noted when the Diggorys went down to the Hufflepuff Basement to pack up Cedric's belongings, leaving no one in the ward except Cedric, and Madam Pomfrey -- she'd hoped. "Now," she'd said, herding the boys out of the Gryffindor common room.

And here they were -- the coast was still clear. Holding open the door, she let Harry and Ron precede her inside, but they fell behind again as they passed empty beds towards the back where a screen sectioned off the only occupied area. She was about to clear her throat (to be sure Cedric was decent), when she heard him laugh at something. A ball of fur skittled across the floor in a strange lurching motion, half on its backside, nails clicking and sliding as it tried to fetch a . . . sweet?

Startled, Hermione let out a little squawk, then gaped as the creature sat up on hind legs, sweet in hand, nibbling. It had a bushy, banded tail and a black face mask. "_That_ is not a cat!" she said as the boys blundered to a stop behind her.

"Most definitely not," replied a voice from behind the screen. "He'd be very insulted to be compared to a cat."

"I like cats!" Hermione protested.

"So do I," said the unseen Cedric, "but Esiban isn't very fond of them." Then he made a clicking sound and the raccoon -- for that's what it was -- made a few bounds to leap back on the bed out of sight. "Come in," he called.

She peered around the screen, finding him propped up against a mountain of white pillows, dressed in a simple blue shirt. There was, she noted with approval, a stack of books on his bedside table, along with cards and chocolates. The raccoon went to curl up beside him. "Meet Esiban," he said, smiling at her. "Granger, right?" Then he bent and seemed to be whispering to the animal, handing it another sweet -- apparently a Bertie Bott's Every Flavor Bean. Much to her surprise, the raccoon waddled to the bed end and sat up on his hind legs once more, sweet in hand. "He's offering to share," Cedric explained.

"I . . . don't know that I want to eat after a raccoon."

Cedric laughed. "Just take it. I'm trying to teach him a new trick. It's really hard to get a raccoon to give up food, so don't break my consistency, right? You don't have to eat it. In fact, just give it back as a reward." Then he added, "Hi, Harry, Ron. I'm glad to see you don't look too much the worse for wear, Potter."

"I'm doing all right. You?"

"I think I'll live."

It was, Hermione thought, a completely inane exchange, as Harry was certainly the worse for wear, covered in scratches and the cut on his arm, and Cedric was still sitting in a hospital bed after four days -- hardly 'all right.' But boys never could say important things until they'd edged around each other like new dogs in a yard, sniffing each other's privates.

"Move slowly," Cedric instructed her, watching carefully as she approached the raccoon. "Hold your hand out, palm up. Let him give it to you. That's right."

Hermione accepted the sweet and muttered, 'Thank you' -- then handed it back. The raccoon snatched it (startling her), and scuttled over to Cedric, then sat nibbling contentedly. "That's amazing," she said. "He's extremely well-trained."

"He's very clever. A total nuisance, but very clever." Cedric was looking down at his pet with a fondness she didn't think she'd seen him bestow on anybody else, even Cho. "There's nothing he can't get into -- or out of -- unless I spell it shut. That was my incentive for Charms class, you know -- to keep Esiban out of trouble before someone in my House decided to have raccoon on a spit for supper."

Harry and Ron chuckled, and Hermione didn't think she'd ever heard Cedric string that many sentences together in a row -- although to be fair, she'd barely exchanged more than a casual greeting with him, and that mostly since Harry had been involved in the Tournament. She really didn't know what he was like outside large crowds, where he tended to be friendly enough, but quiet. Cedric was . . . a bit intimidating (maybe more than a bit) -- for his age, his intelligence, his beauty, even his height. Since Viktor, however, she'd learned that the apparent wasn't always the actual, and Cedric had never been anything but nice to her when she'd been around during the Tournament. Now, she suspected he was yattering about his raccoon less for pride than to put Harry (and her and Ron) at ease.

So she found herself saying (because the boys had their mouths glued shut, apparently), "I can't believe they let you bring a _raccoon_ to Hogwarts -- and how did you _get_ it, in the first place? We don't have raccoons in England, do we?" She realized that she wasn't entirely sure. She'd grown up in London, a city girl, and a trip to the shore for holiday was the extent of her experiences with nature.

"Esiban comes from Canada," Cedric explained. "I spent a month there when I was 12. This little fellow -- well, he was little then -- kept sneaking into the house, and I'd find him curled up asleep on my bed. They're nocturnal, so they sleep during the day. I suppose he felt the house was safe. We think . . . well, Leonard -- the person I was visiting -- thought his mother was dead, and he was the last of his litter. The babies must've been old enough to find food, but not really old enough to be on their own, so a fox or snake or something got the rest. I thought he'd adopted me, and felt sorry for him and -- _stupidly_ -- hid him in one of my bags when I went home. It was by portkey -- so he didn't suffocate. I thought my father was going to kill me when I showed up at the Ministry with a baby raccoon!" Hermione grinned, as did Harry and even Ron, imagining the excitable Amos Diggory in a fit over the stowaway. "But there are some advantages -- and disadvantages -- to having a father who works with magical creatures. He _made_ me take Esiban with me to Hogwarts -- he was my responsibility, Dad said. Now, I can't imagine not having him. My life might be a lot calmer, but it'd be a lot duller, too."

"But raccoons aren't magic, are they?" Harry asked, relaxing enough around Cedric finally to come forward and try to pet the creature.

Cedric smoothly moved the raccoon to his other side. "Careful, Harry. Let him come to you. Lean over like Hermione was, so you're not putting your hand over his head -- that'd be interpreted as a threat, a dominance move. Hold out your hand palm up; he'll come and check you out, then you can pet him. He's not really dangerous, but any wild animal'll bite if he feels cornered. I try to be a little careful." He smiled to take any sting out of the correction, and Hermione was strangely reminded of Hagrid instructing class.

Harry followed Cedric's advice, kneeling down by the bed and letting the raccoon approach him over the top of Cedric's body. Ron, Hermione noticed, was keeping his distance, arms crossed over his chest, looking skeptical but not unfriendly. Cedric went on, "And no, raccoons aren't magic -- well, not by European Wizarding convention." Hermione wondered what he meant by that. "But Esiban's been around magic so long now, and from such a young age, he's sort of . . . absorbed it, like anything will. It's a property of long-term exposure to magic."

"Yes!" Hermione said excitedly, "Magical Seepage -- I've been reading about that --"

"A bit of '_light reading_,' I'm sure," Ron interrupted, mocking her with her own descriptions.

"Shut up, Ron." She was blushing. "Anyway, I was reading about that very thing. It's extremely interesting how even the most mundane Muggle object can take on certain magical properties when placed in constant proximity of magic. Although I confess, I can't remember the exact formula that determines how long it takes --"

"It's a division of the object's weight by the duration of exposure," Cedric replied, "then multiplied by actual proximity. That is, has the object just been in the neighbourhood, or has it been handled regularly? Etcetera."

Hermione blinked. So did Ron and Harry, who looked from her to Cedric as if gobsmacked.

Well, the Goblet _had_ chosen him as a Triwizard Champion. She supposed she shouldn't be so surprised that he not only knew what she was talking about, but knew more about it than she did.

"What?" Ron was saying now, "Do you correct _your_ housemates' essays for them, too?"

Eyes on the raccoon, who seemed to have taken to Harry, Cedric nodded. "It's been known to happen." Then his lips tipped up a bit. "It's been known for me to write a few, too." Raising his eyes, he winked at Ron.

"But you're a prefect!" Hermione said. Correcting was one thing, _writing_ quite another.

"I didn't say I'd done it recently," he defended -- although she suspected him of lying.

Now dropping his arms, Ron shuffled his feet and said, "Listen -- uh. About what happened on the field the other night --"

"Forget it," Cedric cut him off.

Harry looked up from the raccoon. "What happened on the field?"

Ron hadn't told him? "Ronald punched Cedric when Cedric came back without you," Hermione explained -- earning her a glare from Ron.

"You _hit_ him?" Harry asked, astonished. "He saved my life!"

"It doesn't matter, Harry," Cedric was saying. "Everyone was upset and scared --"

"_I_ told him to go back," Harry went on to Ron, ignoring Cedric's attempt to be diplomatic.

"Well, I didn't know that!" Ron protested, hands shoved in pockets, head down mulishly.

"What did you think he was going to do? One of us had to go back to get Dumbledore --"

"I didn't_ know_ that!" Ron insisted.

A shrill whistled interrupted them, and Cedric pulled fingers from his mouth to call, "Time out!" like the Quidditch captain he was. But his voice edged on laughter. "I'm not mad at Ron, Harry. If I'd been in his shoes, I'd probably have done the same thing." He paused, then added, "I'm not mad at you, either."

Harry immediately blushed, looking down in guilty embarrassment.

Well, Hermione thought, it seemed that sniffing at privates had been accomplished. Now they could get down to business. She moved back a little, to the very edge of the screen, granting Harry, and Ron, a bit of privacy with Cedric. "So how are you -- really?" Harry asked, pulling up a chair. Ron had moved around to stand behind Harry.

"I'll be okay," Cedric said, but there was something . . . a sliding away of eyes. Hermione wasn't sure if Harry caught it, as Cedric pretended interest in his raccoon, feeding him slices of apple, now. "They're sending me to St. Mungo's in the morning. I'll probably be there a few more days, then go home. They've got to figure out some way to reverse the curse. Madam Pomfrey seemed pretty confident they can do it, though. It's just a bit rare, so it'll take a specialist healer."

Harry appeared relieved, and Hermione -- still standing at the edge of the screen -- wanted to be, but found she couldn't, quite. Cedric was downplaying something, she was virtually certain.

"What'd the curse do?" Harry was asking.

Cedric shrugged, and frowned. "I'm not sure _they're_ sure, exactly. They sort of know what it did, but not what it was. And I only felt it hit -- I didn't hear the command. I don't even know who hit me."

"Lucius Malfoy," Harry said instantly. "I was facing that direction after you grabbed me. I thought he was aiming at _me_, but then I realized he wasn't. He was aiming at you." Harry's tone was indignant. Even after all that had happened to him, he still found acts of pure maliciousness incomprehensible. Hermione hoped he never came to _understand_ evil.

The expression on Cedric's face, however . . . was interesting -- part astonishment, part recognition, and part pure rage. It was as if he both believed and couldn't believe that Malfoy senior would have done such a thing. Then again, being two years ahead, maybe he didn't know Draco very well -- nor have realized that Lucius was a Death Eater. Or maybe he was just like Harry, and couldn't fathom cruelty.

"That _bastard_," Cedric muttered, which startled her and the boys a bit, as much at the coldness in his voice as to hear him swear. (Lord knew, Fred and George swore enough, but it was less . . . bitter and blunt.) "You're sure it was Lucius?"

"Absolutely," Harry replied.

Cedric glanced sideways, one hand petting the raccoon with deceptive gentleness, the other gripping the sheets till his knuckles were as white as his pursed lips. "I'll tell my father, who'll go to Fudge -- although I doubt anything will come of it, not officially. Fudge is in Malfoy's pocket so deep he'll never crawl out. But at least I know -- and I'll tell my mother." The tight lips relaxed and curled slightly, as if he were amused by the thought of something. Hermione remembered meeting Cedric's mother earlier when she'd come to talk to Harry. A tall, regal, blonde woman, calm and gracious, she'd struck Hermione as a true lady -- but not gentle or soft. Cedric must have inherited his gentleness from his _father_, even if Hermione had wondered before how Cedric could be Amos Diggory's son. They'd seemed so different. After meeting Lucy Diggory, however, Hermione had realized that Cedric was a younger, male version of his mother. Yet Cedric was_ kind_. His mother -- well, Hermione decided that she wouldn't want to be Lucius Malfoy when Lucy Diggory caught up with him.

Abruptly, Cedric seemed to shake off his sour, angry mood, and smiled again. The smile was genuine, but it was clear to Hermione that he'd just buried something hurtful in order to play the gracious host. It was so very Hufflepuffian of him, she thought. "Tell me -- what else have I missed? Was Moody arrested?"

"It wasn't Moody, actually," Harry said.

"Not Moody? But I saw --"

"It was Barty Crouch's son."

"What? Impossible -- he's in Azkaban!" Cedric protested.

"_Was_ in Azkaban. He escaped, caught Moody by surprise, and used Polyjuice Potion to pretend to be him . . . " And Harry launched into the follow-up tale of how Crouch junior had been working for Voldemort in order to secure Harry's presence in the graveyard for an ancient spell of resurrection. Cedric asked a few questions, but mostly listened with careful interest. He had, Hermione thought, a rather piercing gaze when he wasn't laughing, and he and Harry seemed wrapped up in their own private recall of the night they'd almost died. Hermione felt as if she were intruding, and even Ron had stepped away, come over to join her where she stood near the screen.

"It's getting dark," he muttered. "Feast'll start soon."

"Think we should go and let them talk?" she asked.

Ron frowned; he could be such a silly, jealous prat sometimes. But then his forehead smoothed, and he said, "Yeah, maybe so." More loudly, he called out, "We're going downstairs." Both Harry and Cedric looked around, and Harry started to rise but Ron held up a hand. "You finish filling in Ced. We'll hold you a seat." Harry sat back down, and Ron asked Cedric, "Anything in particular you want from the Feast?"

"Candied-violet pudding if they've got any. Otherwise, I don't much care."

"Sure," Ron replied, guiding Hermione out. She was grinning. Ron and Cedric had made their peace, thank heavens. Boys could be so stupid sometimes.

* * *

When Weasley and the Granger girl were gone, Cedric returned his attention to Harry, who looked awful, whatever he'd said. His face was all scratched (rather like Cedric's own), he had bruises, and there was a long, deep cut on his arm. His eyes, though, were the worst; they looked haunted. Reaching out, Cedric took Harry's wrist and turned his arm so the long cut showed. "What happened in the graveyard after I left? I heard you screaming as I 'ported out. I shouldn't have left you behind."

Harry pulled his wrist free and rubbed the wound. "Don't be stupid. One of us had to go, and it was me who Voldemort wanted. If I'd left you, they'd just have killed you. Besides, you've got longer legs to run faster."

Cedric snorted. He didn't know how soon he'd be running again, but didn't intend to tell Harry that. The kid had enough on his mind. "There is that. And I know it made sense, I just feel badly --"

"Stop. Just stop, okay? You saved my life back there, and now you're still stuck in hospital for it."

"You saved mine before that, when you shouted."

"Okay, so we're even."

"We're even." Cedric smiled, but feared it looked thin. "So tell me what happened in the graveyard. That first chap -- the one who tried to kill me -- that wasn't Voldemort, was it?"

Harry peered at him. "You just said the name -- Voldemort. And no, that was Wormtail -- Peter Pettigrew."

Cedric shrugged. "The whole 'You-Know-Who' thing seems a bit daft now -- like avoiding his name can make him not notice you? And I thought Pettigrew was _dead_?"

Harry continued to eye Cedric. "Okay, Dumbledore said I could tell you this, but you can't tell anybody else yet, not even your parents. Well, Ron and Hermione know, and a few other people. But -- you promise?"

Cedric nodded.

"Peter Pettigrew was the one who betrayed my parents to Voldemort -- not Sirius Black. Pettigrew framed Sirius."

"But Black was here, hunting you --"

"No, he wasn't. He was here to hunt Pettigrew . . . " And Harry told Cedric what had happened the year before.

When the boy was done, Cedric just sat there, a bit stunned. "Wow," was all he could think of to say, then, "You conjured up a Patronus? That's . . . amazing. I'm not sure I could do that yet."

"I think you could," Harry said. "The Goblet of Fire chose you, after all -- not me, really. It was just tricked into choosing me. You'd have to be a powerful wizard for the Goblet to've picked you, Cedric. I'm sure you could do a Patronus if you tried."

Cedric raised an eyebrow. "You're underselling yourself. I saw you in that graveyard, standing up to Voldemort. You've got more plain courage than I do, Harry. And I'm not so sure that, if your name _had_ been in for Hogwarts, it wouldn't have been you the Goblet chose instead of me. I'd say you're going to _be_ somebody someday -- but I think you already are."

Harry was blushing terribly, and looked, here, now, no more than the fourteen years old he was. Before he could say anything, though, the ward doors opened and they heard a bunch of people entering, making a lot of noise, including clapping and shouting of Cedric's name: "Dig-go-ry!" and "Eh, Cedric!" and "You in there, mate?"

Harry jumped in his seat beside Cedric's bed and Esiban lifted his head, whiskered nose twitching. Cedric sat up a bit straighter, running a hand through his hair. "I'm back here!" he called, then glanced at his watch and said to Harry, "I think you missed the Feast, talking to me. Sorry about that."

"Don't be."

Harry stood as if to move away -- or maybe flee, but Cedric gripped his wrist again briefly to hold him there. "Don't go yet." Then Cedric released him as a small crowd of people poured around the edge of the screen -- mostly fellow Hufflepuffs including his denmates, but a few from other Houses, such as Cho. They were bearing a tray loaded with food from the Feast, and carrying some of the banners that had been hanging up in the stands, before the Third Task, with his name in House colors. There was a new banner, too, with the Triwizard Cup and 'Diggory' splashed across it. He frowned. If he never saw that cup again, it would be too soon.

The noise faltered a bit when the new arrivals spotted Harry, as if they weren't sure what to make of the presence of Cedric's former Tournament rival. "What's he doing here?" Peter Adamson asked, eyeing Harry suspiciously.

"What does it look like he's doing?" Cedric asked -- perhaps a bit more sharply than he should have. "He came to visit." Then he pointed to some of the chairs that were nearby. "Sit down. And bring me my dinner!" He reached out for the tray that Peter was carrying -- to deflect interest from Harry . . . who he absolutely did not want to leave yet. This whole House rivalry thing needed to _stop_. Now. While he appreciated the loyalty of his housemates, it wasn't fair to Harry. He'd set them straight later. For now, he just wanted to make it very public that Harry was -- well, not his friend, exactly. Cedric didn't know Harry all that well. But they'd shared something that bound them beyond anything as casual as friendship; as far as Cedric was concerned, Harry had a permanent welcome. He picked up a roll and some chicken and passed it to Harry, who hadn't eaten either.

At least Cho knew the truth of what had happened in the Maze and after, and she came around the bed to give Harry a kiss on the cheek, making him blush. Cedric didn't miss that, and took a bite of pudding (always eat dessert first) to hide his grin. He'd gathered from a few things she'd said that the kid had a crush on her. It didn't bother him; he wasn't the jealous type and Cho wasn't going anywhere, however 'cute' she'd declared Harry to be. She'd said 'cute' in the same tone of voice that she used to describe Esiban. She'd set her sights on Cedric. (She was perhaps a bit more attached to him than he to her, truth be told. He wondered if that should bother him, though he certainly wasn't uninterested in her. After all, pretty, smart Chinese girls with big black eyes and some wicked Mandarin hexes didn't come along every day.)

His visitors hung about another ten or fifteen minutes, filling him in on all manner of House gossip (much of which he really didn't care about, but he enjoyed the company). Everyone seemed bent on being cheerful and positive, harassing him about being a lazy git still lying around in bed, and speculating on his chances of being made Head Boy next year. "First time Hufflepuff's had a Head Boy in fifteen years!" Susan Bones said.

"I'm not Head Boy yet, so don't count chickens," he warned her.

"You were Triwizard Champion! Of course you'll be Head Boy," said Ed Carpenter, one of his denmates.

"Harry and I won together," Cedric pointed out, covering his irritation with a bite of roast beef.

"They're right, though," Harry said from where he still hovered uncertainly near the head of Cedric's bed, gratefully accepting another roll and some cheese that Cedric passed him. There wasn't really enough finger food. "You'll be Head Boy."

"See? Even Potter thinks so!" Ernie MacMillan cried. "Our Ced for Head Boy, Triwizard Champ -- all we'll need to do is take the House Cup and it'll be a great year for Hufflepuff!"

Cedric shook his head, keeping quiet, embarrassed by the attention. Rather to his surprise, Harry spoke up again -- less nervously now. "Well, if you want the House cup, you'll have to beat the Gryffindor Quidditch team to get it."

"Hey, we did it before," Ernie said. "And we've still got Ced."

"Yeah, well, Gryffindor's still got _me_." Harry was grinning; this sort of friendly rivalry was more familiar and Cedric suspected he didn't feel quite so overwhelmed. "You up for a rematch on the Quidditch Pitch, Diggory?"

Cedric found that his throat had closed; it took him almost ten seconds to manage, "Yeah -- sure." He couldn't make himself tell them that if the healers at St. Mungo's couldn't reverse the curse, he wasn't going to be flying as Seeker anymore. He'd be lucky if he could still fly at all.

Perhaps some of them had picked up on his sudden discomfort, including Harry, as conversation faltered. But Madam Pomfrey came out then and shooed everybody away, except Cho, who she let stay with Cedric till he was done eating. When Pomfrey had bustled away again, Cho leaned in, elbows on the mattress while she watched him finish supper. "Dumbledore talked about you tonight."

Surprised, Cedric glanced up. "What'd he say? That I was three kinds of idiot for going back there? I could've got one of the adults killed, trying to protect me."

Dark eyes solemn, she shook her head. "No, Ced. Nothing like that. He warned us that, well -- apparently, the Ministry didn't want him telling us what had happened to you, and Harry, too. But he said that he wants us to remember that one of our own was lying in hospital tonight because he'd tried to protect someone else, and that in the days to come, we may have to do what's right, not what's easy. You got a standing ovation, you know. You weren't there to see, but you did. You know who started it?"

Cedric shook his head, not sure if he were more shocked or more embarrassed by what she'd told him.

"Viktor Krum."

Cedric resisted boggling. "Really?"

"Really. We all started clapping and then Krum stood up, and after that, everybody stood."

Cedric recalled being attacked by Krum in the maze, and how he'd been prepared to do more than just blast the wand from the Bulgarian's hand before Potter had restrained him. He felt guilty for that now. Harry had been right; Krum had been bewitched, and maybe standing up for Cedric tonight had been Krum's way of apologizing indirectly.

Frowning, he pondered what Cho had told him while he finished eating. It was her report about the Ministry's attempts to suppress what had happened that disturbed him most -- more than having Dumbledore compliment him publicly or his classmates applaud him. (He still suspected that, privately, Dumbledore would have something rather different to say about impulsive attempts at heroics.)

"Summer's going to be terrible without you around," Cho said after the silence had stretched some minutes. She'd never been that comfortable just sitting without talking (unless they were studying). "You'll write, won't you?"

"Of course," he said, setting the tray aside so that Esiban -- who'd waited very patiently -- could clean up his plate. Then he turned to smile at her, take her hand in his and twine their fingers. "It's only a few months."

She just eyed him, and he realized he'd put his foot in it with that last remark. "Of course I'll miss you," he amended. Girls were complicated. "But it's the end of June now. We've only got to wait till September. And like I said -- I'll write. You'll write back, won't you?"

She had a pretty smile, and gave it to him now, looking up from beneath lowered lashes. Then she moved from the chair to the edge of his bed and bent forward, kissing him lightly, a feather-brush of soft lips on his. "I can't do that by letter."

"True." He grinned and pulled her closer, kissing her back rather more intently. She was quite a fantastic kisser, which wasn't the only reason he was still dating her six months after the Yule Ball, but it had more to do with it than it probably should. He wasn't demonstrative with her in public -- that would be vulgar -- but within five minutes of being alone, they'd usually dispensed with words in favor of lips and hands. She did something to his brain, shutting it down like a snuffing-out spell, and he loved the feel of her in his arms. But it wasn't just him. She was as likely to start things as he, and she'd been the first to slide a hand down his back and beyond, which had opened up entirely new vistas of exploration. Whatever the chemistry between them, it definitely went both ways; he wasn't taking advantage.

But if they weren't snogging, they didn't share much, it seemed -- not past the obvious things like being good students and Seekers for their respective teams. The few times they'd tried actually to _talk_ -- because they'd both observed they really ought to -- they'd just seemed to talk _past_ each other. Cho was neither a stupid nor silly girl -- which was why he'd asked her to the ball in the first place -- but that didn't mean they had similar interests. Cho wanted to work for Gringott's, or in some sort of business when she finished school . . . maybe even open her own shop someday. Cedric tried to be encouraging, and honestly did think she'd do very well at it. But he couldn't imagine much that interested him _less_, personally. He preferred the exchange of ideas, or learning about different people and cultures and languages, or even the theory of magic itself.

In fact, part of what had drawn him to Cho initially was her different ancestry -- only to learn that she had very little inclination to maintain Chinese traditions, spoke almost no Mandarin beyond what she needed for spells, and considered herself as thoroughly British as he was. After he'd met her parents for the first time on a Hogsmeade weekend, and had spent it all discussing magical traditions in China, she'd complained on their walk back that sometimes she thought he was only dating her because she wasn't English. He'd denied it vehemently -- because it was true. Well, that and the fact he couldn't seem to keep his hands off of her in private.

At the moment she was twisted on the bed to lie half on him, mouth hard on his, urging one of his hands up to her breast beneath her robes. And he really ought to be getting off on this, but wasn't. He felt nothing below the waist -- because he couldn't. And he didn't want Cho to know that, so he pushed her away. "You need to go before either Madam Pomfrey comes back and catches us, or my mother does."

(And perhaps that last bit was cruel, as he knew how Cho found his mother intimidating.)

Sitting back, she caught her breath and smoothed her hair, such beautiful, sleek hair. "I'll be up in the morning to see you off."

"You needn't --"

"I'll be up." She bent to kiss his nose, then rose to leave even as he heard the ward door open, and his parents' voices. "Good night, Ced."

"'Night, Cho."

* * *

Cedric woke even before sunrise the next day, unsure what had roused him, then realized he wasn't alone. He might have expected his parents, or perhaps Cho, but found Dumbledore sitting quietly beside his bed, illumined by the gray and blue light of predawn.

Immediately, he tried to sit up, though his lower body wasn't cooperating. He hadn't seen the headmaster since the graveyard, and vividly recalled the angry tone of Dumbledore's voice when he'd ordered Cedric to stay hidden. Cedric hated to let people down -- especially the likes of Dumbledore. "I'm really sorry," he said now. "I know I shouldn't have grabbed the cup. I just -- I couldn't leave Harry there and not go back. I'm sorry, I --"

Dumbledore raised a hand to silence him, then pointed wordlessly to the table a little behind Cedric's bed.

Twisting to look, Cedric found the Triwizard Cup sitting there. It still glowed softly blue, and Cedric realized that it must have been the cup's subtle light that had woken him. What it was doing there, though, he couldn't fathom.

Dumbledore must have guessed as much. "We've decided it is to be yours."

Cedric's slack-jawed expression was all he could manage, and Dumbledore actually smiled at him.

"I'm glad you realize that what you did five nights ago -- returning to Little Hangleton -- was a foolish choice. But it was a foolish choice made by a compassionate heart. There are worse sorts of errors, and in the end, it proved fateful. You were able to rescue Harry and stop the fight far sooner than it might otherwise have ended, and with only the one casualty. And if all death is to be regretted, I am not above pointing out that the death was not on our side. So your original action may have been ill-considered, but it was brave, and it seems to me that the true measure of a man's soul is revealed in the errors he makes rather than in what he gets right."

Too astonished to reply, Cedric just mulled over what Dumbledore had said.

"As I believe your mother explained to you yesterday," Dumbledore went on, "the Ministry has decided to split the Tournament winnings between you and Harry."

"I know, I don't want --"

"Harry also tried to refuse the prize money. Therefore, if it makes you feel better, imagine that you are accepting what Harry does not want, and he can accept what you don't." Dumbledore winked, and Cedric resisted laughing a little. "As for the cup --"

"I don't want that, either. I don't ever want to see it again."

"I understand -- but I think you should have it, and Harry was of the same mind when I spoke to him yesterday evening. He told me what you said to him -- that you believed he would have been chosen as the Hogwarts champion had he been allowed to enter. But Cedric, has it not occurred to you to ask yourself, this past year, why it _was_ you who the cup chose? Why not someone from Gryffindor, or Ravenclaw, or Slytherin?"

In fact, the question had occurred to him, and Cedric had been unable to produce a satisfactory answer, so now, he just waited to see what Dumbledore thought.

"The Triwizard Champion does not just represent himself, or his House, but represents his entire school. Of all the Houses at Hogwarts, it is _Hufflepuff _who best embodies that sense of community responsibility. A champion from another House would not have stood for Hogwarts in quite such a fitting way. You _were _the Hogwarts Champion, Cedric Diggory -- never doubt it. Wits aside, skill aside, _courage_ aside -- the Goblet has reasons for its choices that reflect the sum total of a champion, and I am not at all convinced that, had Harry been old enough to enter, it would not still have been _your_ name that came out of it."

Cedric felt himself blushing furiously, hot with a combination of pleasure, pride, and even relief, as well as plain embarrassment because it seemed vain to feel those other things. Almost as if he knew what Cedric were thinking, Dumbledore reached out to clap his shoulder. "You are an exceptional young man. And the cup is yours, to be held in trust until the next Tournament. So, I fear, you may be holding it rather a long time, given the outcome of this one."

Dumbledore said this with a dry amusement and it startled a grin out of Cedric, but then he frowned once more. "I'm not sure I can stand to look at it, sir."

"I know. And that is exactly why I think you should."

Cedric glanced up sharply; Dumbledore's face was quite serious. "A time of darkness is coming for all of us now, but for you on a personal level especially in these next few months. You should take the cup with you to St. Mungo's, in order to remember not only the choice you made that resulted in your being there -- but _why_. You put the welfare and life of another ahead of your own. You were willing to give everything you had. But it is sometimes easier to give than to take, is it not?"

Cedric had to nod, wondering where this was going.

"Yet being_ part of a community_, Cedric, means not just to give selflessly, but to accept help and support from others when you need it. You have been a symbol for this school -- and I think you will continue to be one. Let your fellow students _honor_ you. If I am not mistaken, the Ojibway have a saying about a community honoring, do they not?"

Cedric blinked, astonished that Dumbledore would know -- but perhaps he shouldn't have been. There wasn't much Dumbledore didn't seem to know; it was uncanny. "When an honoring comes to you, it comes to you," he replied. "You don't seek it out, but you don't turn it down. That'd be rude."

"Just so," Dumbledore said, the smile back. "An honoring has come to you, Cedric. Accept it. And let it be symbolic of what you may need in the year ahead. When you are closest to giving up, I want you to look at the cup, and remember. You may have competed alone, but you _never_ stood alone. And you don't stand alone now. Let people do things for you -- at least sometimes."

The headmaster rose from his seat by the bed. "I will see you in September, Mr. Diggory. Be well."

* * *

**Notes:** With special thanks to Bren Kuebler, who checked my British, keeping me from making many embarrassing errors. :-) And also to Jocelyn, who helps me keep my HP details correct, et al. For those curious about the whole story behind Cedric acquiring Esiban, see the little short story on -- "The Badger Raccoon." It was written for a medium that required maintenence of canon (so there's the canon character death), but it's the same story.

Last, because there is some confusion -- including mine, when I first started researching this -- Cedric is in his _sixth_ year during _Goblet of Fire_, even though he's 17. Like Hermione, he appears to have had a birthday early in fall term before October 31st. His exact year is given in _Prisoner of Azkaban_, where he's called the new Quidditch captain of Hufflepuff and a fifth year prefect. This makes his selection by the goblet all the more notable in that he beat out not only other sixth years like Angelina Johnson, but all seventh years as well. Dumbledore isn't exaggerating when he tells Cedric he's exceptional.


	3. St Mungo's

He wasn't prepared for the pain.

In the end, it was the physical pain -- always present -- that proved to be the most difficult adjustment to make. Much later, Cedric would look back on that summer as the veil between an existence of ease and unthinking mobility, and a state of mind that entailed planning how he was getting from here to there -- and how much time it might take. Twinges and aches became his measure of the hours, and how soon until he'd have to take another dose from the little bottle of murtlap and yarrow in his pocket.

When they first brought him to St. Mungo's, he was placed on the Fourth Floor, Bonham Ward for Spell Damage, where he became a medical curiosity, poked and prodded by healers, including one called all the way from Germany, and another from Sweden. He wound up with a diagnostic team of four people trying to figure out what was wrong with him. When he expressed concern to his father about the cost of such consultations, his father just patted his hand. "Don't you worry about it, son. We're going to get you on your feet again. The Ministry's paying. You were a Triwizard Champion. If Ludo Bagman is a right incompetent ass, and Bertha's no better, there are decent folk in that office."

Cedric also suspected that Minister Fudge was doing his best to minimize what had happened, which meant keeping Cedric's family conciliated. It also meant controlling what appeared publicly about his injury. Cedric hadn't spoken to a single reporter since the Tournament, even the hideous Rita Skeeter. Perhaps St. Mungo's simply forbade such visitors, but he thought it might be more specific in his case. Certainly, he wasn't being told much himself, even when he asked questions. Instead, he heard, "You just concentrate on getting better," or "You've got enough on your plate, young man, without worrying about the state of the world." Even his mother wasn't telling him anything, nor was she letting him read _The Daily Prophet_.

To make it worse, in that first week after his arrival, he was left with a lot of free time to think. The tests they subjected him to often meant that he had to lie on his side or stomach while healers examined his spine, legs, pelvic region, and even his head. Once they actually took his blood, as in a Muggle hospital, and another time, a urine sample. Sometimes, he tried to read a book or letters from friends, but more often he was told to lie still. Despite his natural inquisitiveness, most of the healers had neither time nor inclination to tell him what they were doing, nor what each of the many curious instruments actually measured.

The German, a man named Haus, was especially rude. And they all spoke in a kind of medical code that left him frustrated, trying to decipher it. The Swede, named Sofia Ben, was nicest, and would take pity on him enough to explain what she was about. But he only understood half of it, and his reluctance to make a nuisance of himself kept him from asking her more, even while he grew increasingly irritable. After all, it was happening to _his_ body.

The upshot was that he spent a great deal of time just reviewing what had happened with Voldemort, and wondering what the Dark Lord might do next -- neither of which topic did much for his peace of mind.

The worst of the tests involved removing the paralysis spell he'd been under since the night of the Third Task. They couldn't evaluate the extent of nerve damage if his lower body were immobilized and stripped of feeling. The first time Ben took off the spell -- even with plenty of forewarning -- the sensation of fire consuming Cedric's lower body made him scream himself raw-throated. The poor woman kept muttering, "So sorry, so sorry," under her breath for the full three minutes of the exam. If he eventually managed to stop screaming, it was only because she gave him a tongue depressor to bite. When she was done and the paralysis spell back in place, she gave him a sleeping draught and told him they were done for the day, one cool hand on his forehead. "You were very brave," she said.

"I screamed like a baby," he snarled back.

"Of course you did," she replied matter-of-factly. "That curse is killing your nerves; it's excruciating. But you were able to hold mostly still for me -- that's more than some people could manage. Sleep, Cedric."

They had to take the spell off him twice more, once for only a minute -- which he managed to bear without howling -- but the third time, it was off for almost ten minutes . . . though he wasn't told that in advance, or he probably couldn't have faced it. As it was, he was half-panting and covered in a cold sweat just from anticipation, even before Ben and Groat raised their wands. Groat was there, Cedric realized later, just to hold him still while Ben did the testing, because Cedric really hadn't been able to keep still himself (and they couldn't use a rigor charm). Afterwards, he just lay in his bed and tried not to cry (half from the pain, half from the humiliation of being unable to take it). Ben put him to sleep again. Of his healers, he definitely liked her best, and not just because she was young and rather pretty. She had gentle hands, and always called him by his first name. After a week of being St. Mungo's resident human puzzle, with half the healers dropping by "just to look in" (to look at his _patient notes_, truth be told), he noticed such small kindnesses.

It was exactly one week after he'd arrived that all four of his healers trooped into his ward, dressed in lime green robes and holding clipboards that they consulted while his father and mother came to stand by his bed, one on either side. Cedric didn't like the healers' expressions -- a bit too solemn to be reassuring.

The black British healer, Groat, cleared his throat, then spoke, "The good news is that we believe we can significantly slow the spreading effects of the curse."

The obvious corollary to that, Cedric realized, was that they clearly couldn't _stop_ it, much less reverse it.

Beside him, his father made a sound as if he'd been punched in the stomach. Cedric's mother said nothing but simply stood waiting for the rest of their diagnosis, quiet like Cedric himself.

The chief healer on his case, Haus, pulled around a chair at the end of Cedric's bed and plopped down, crossing an ankle over a knee. He spoke to Cedric rather than to Cedric's parents for which consideration Cedric was grateful, although after a week he couldn't say he much liked Haus, who seemed perpetually cross about something. "My colleagues" -- he waved to indicate Healers Groat, Ben, and the other Englishman, Grant -- "think this an improperly cast Nervoccido Curse. Unfortunately, the Nervoccido Curse has no known reversal, and destroys the entire central nervous system, including the brain, within months, reducing the sufferer to a vegetative state."

Haus's compatriots shot him poisonous glares as Cedric's father's legs went out from under him and he collapsed into another chair near the head of Cedric's bed. Cedric's mother said, "I gather this won't be the case with my son? Either that, or you have a deplorable bedside manner."

"I do have a deplorable bedside manner," Haus replied, "but no, I don't think this is the Nervoccido Curse, or at least not a traditional one. If it were, by this point, your son would be showing the beginnings of deterioration to his fine motor skills above the waist, too -- and he's not." He shot a glance over his shoulder at the other three, as if to reiterate a point.

"Difference of medical opinion noted," Cedric's mother said. "Please tell us what you can do for him."

Haus hiked an eyebrow and Groat struggled not to look offended. Ben and Grant said nothing. "In young Mr. Diggory's case, damage to the nervous system seems entirely contained below the second lumbar vertibra at the base of the spine. The curse isn't spreading into the thoracic area, much less higher. Mr. Diggory may eventually lose autonomous command of his lower body, but not his upper, and he probably won't lose involuntary systems, nor actual feeling in his lower extremities. Given the alternative -- the full spell -- that's fortunate."

Ben glared at Haus, then looked from Cedric to his mother and father, and back to Cedric, meeting his eyes. "You won't be paralyzed," she said. "You won't even be confined to a wheelchair -- at least, not immediately. But you won't be able to walk without artificial assistance. I'm sorry." And she did sound genuinely apologetic. Yet their report wasn't much different from what Madam Pomfrey had warned, so it felt to Cedric like a dull blow, more confirmation of his fears than real news.

"But can't you -- isn't there something more you can do?" Cedric's father asked. "This is my _son_. This is England's Triwizard Champion!"

"I'm sorry," Ben said again. "I truly am." She glanced down at her notes. "The curse works to . . . crust over, if you will . . . the nerve endings, causing increasing damage. We're currently working on a variation of the Restituo Potion that will both stimulate the damaged nerves and slow down that crusting. But the recipe for the potion is very complex, and it won't be ready for another three weeks. In the meantime, we're prescribing an Abdoleo Potion, which will help Cedric begin to learn pain management. It'll have to be in a fairly high concentration, at first. Side-effects will include sleepiness and light-headedness, but he'll have feeling back in his lower body."

"In other words, it's going to make me feel drunk," Cedric said -- the first time he'd spoken.

"Well . . . yes. Abdoleo interferes somewhat with a patient's powers of mental focus, although in lower concentrations, most patients do develop a tolerance and are able to function normally. Once the Restituo Potion is finished, we'll be able to reduce the concentration of your Abdoleo."

"I don't want it," Cedric said immediately.

"Cedric, you've experienced what the pain is like without --"

"I don't want it!" he snapped, and suddenly, it was all there, balled in his guts**:** anger, disappointment, despair. "I'm not walking around for the rest of my life like some . . . Muggle drug addict!"

"It won't be like that," Ben said.

"What will it be like then?" he demanded, and felt his mother's hand come down on his shoulder, gripping in warning.

"You'll learn to adjust. Honestly, you will. It'll simply take time -- and it's not something you'll be _able_ to go without, Cedric."

"I'm not in pain now," he pointed out, but it was stubborn more than reasoned.

"You're not in pain now because you can't feel anything at all below your waist," Haus snapped. "Would you rather take that option? We _could_ make the paralysis permanent. Then you could spend the rest of your life in a wheelchair."

Cedric opened his mouth to retort -- but had nothing to say. Haus had a point. Cedric glanced up at his mother, whose face, he could see now, was stark but determined. His father just sat in the chair by the bed like a stunned bull, head in hands.

"Right now," Haus went on, "you have two options. Take the Restituo and Abdoleo, get fitted for leg braces and crutches, and learn how to use them. Or make the paralysis spell permanent and buy a wheelchair. When you decide, let me know." Rising, he stalked out. The other three followed, the Swede with a sympathetic glance back in his direction.

"So," he said finally. "That's the end of that." Meaning the end of hope.

His mother glanced down at him. "I'll go upstairs and talk to one of the healers about getting hold of those braces and crutches."

"What if I don't want them?" Again, it was more an expression of anger and hopelessness than a logical retort, and she knew as much. She just studied his face a moment before turning on her heel and heading out, her deep violet robes swirling behind her.

"This -- they must be wrong," his fathered muttered, as if confused by what he'd heard. "There's got to be something more they can do."

"Don't think so, Dad," he replied. "I'm afraid you're stuck with a cripple for a son."

Amos Diggory raised his head finally to glare at Cedric. "I don't _ever_ want to hear you call yourself that again."

"Why not? It's true."

Cedric was being plain vicious now.

His father stood. "I'm going to help your mother." On that, he walked out.

When they were gone, Cedric sat a moment, the rage building now that his situation was certain rather than just a looming fear. Then he flung an arm out, connecting with the objects stacked on his bedside table**:** some books, a cup full of water, some cards. They went flying. At the table's back, tucked away under a couple letters from Cho, sat the Triwizard Cup. Just as Dumbledore had ordered, he'd brought it with him. Now, he grabbed it and flung it across the room at the wall opposite. It smashed into the stone with a satisfying crash . . . but didn't break.

"FUCK!" he yelled. It was the crudest word he could think of.

The few other patients sharing the same ward stared at him in the wake of his tantrum, and he couldn't (stuck in the bed as he was) pull his screen around for privacy. "What are you gaping at?" he snarled, then flopped over on his side, curling around himself, one hand rubbing his useless legs.

In the end, there wasn't really much of a choice. Given only the option of walking (however awkwardly) and pain medication, or spending the rest of his life in a wheelchair with no feeling at all below his waist, he'd take the crutches and drugs. He just didn't have to like it, or pretend to be grateful.

His mother returned before supper with a set of magical braces and forearm crutches, and a medi-wizard who specialized in such things came along to show him how to put them on. The braces went up past his knees, adhering to his legs and moving with the joints, but still providing support to muscles that couldn't hold him up anymore. The crutch cuffs magically molded to grip his forearms and automatically extended to match his height, keeping them from either dangling awkwardly or falling off. He wondered how he was supposed to carry anything or use his wand with the crutches. "We'll start you on physiotherapy next Monday," the medi-wizard told him. "You'll be getting around in no time."

Cedric bit his tongue to keep from saying something unfortunate. And later that evening, Haus, Groat, Ben and Grant returned, Cedric was given his prescription of Abdoleo, and the paralysis spell was formally lifted.

It marked Cedric's initiation into a lifetime of pain and hampered movement.

* * *

Hermione had spent less than a week of the summer holiday with her parents before Dumbledore showed up on their front step, requesting her participation in a 'special summer project.' Hermione's parents -- who'd always treated Dumbledore with the utmost respect -- were thrilled (if not surprised) that their daughter had been selected for such a program. Naturally, they agreed to let her go with the headmaster, although her mother hugged her extra tightly. "You're growing up so fast," she whispered. "I hardly feel I know you any more."

"I love you, Mum; I always will," was all she could think to say, because -- truth be told -- her mother _didn't_ know her anymore. Sometimes, that bothered her. But if she told her parents half of what had happened to her at Hogwarts, they'd have withdrawn her so fast it would've made her head spin.

"Be good," her father said, "Make us proud."

"Always, Dad." Then she smiled at them both. "I'll write, of course."

"Of course."

And she was off, trotting along at Dumbledore's side, dragging her trunk, Crookshanks tucked under her arm. When they were a little distant from the house, he paused to say, "My apologies for deceiving your parents, but as you'll see, it was not entirely a lie. I do have a special summer project for you."

"And," Hermione replied, "my parents probably wouldn't have let me come if they knew about Lord . . . You-Know-Who."

He smiled gently. "I suspect not. Nor would I blame them -- although you'll be safer where we're going than you would be at home."

And that was how Hermione Granger ended up at Number 12, Grimmauld Place only a week into the summer holiday. The 'special project' of which Dumbledore had spoken was, unfortunately, a good deal less exciting than she'd hoped. Under the direction of Mrs. Weasley, she, Ron, Ginny, and the twins were set to cleaning up Sirius' family home to make it habitable. The only bright side she could see was that she got to be around Ginny -- and Ron, although her feelings about the latter were confused. One minute, she wanted to wring his neck and the next, to hug him.

"Why are boys so complicated?" she asked Ginny on her second night there. The two girls were sharing a room.

Ginny looked over at Hermione knowingly. "Ron's just a bit dim," she replied. "He'll come around eventually."

"Who said I was talking about Ron?"

Snorting, Ginny flopped back on her own bed. "So who were you talking about?"

"Well -- it might've been Harry."

"Right."

"Or Viktor Krum."

Ginny raised her head but not her body. "Have you heard from him yet, by the by?"

"Yes, once. It's my turn to write back. He's really very sweet."

"But -- if I remember right -- 'I have to do all the talking.' That's what you said."

"Well," Hermione temporized, "it's not that he's stupid or anything, just . . . quiet." Part of her was thrilled to have the attention of a famous boy who also happened to be rather nice, but another part knew -- deep down -- that it wasn't a good match.

"You prefer them chatty."

"Or at least able to hold up their end of a conversation, you know? It's nice to get a _response_ when I ask a question."

Ginny just laughed. "And you get a response from _Ron_?"

"It may be 'huh,' but it's a response. With Victor, well -- even his letters are short. _Terse_, would be a good description."

Ginny rolled up on an elbow to eye Hermione. "I do love my brother, but I think you're going to have to wait a few years before he's ready for you. Ron's fifteen going on twelve, you know."

Hermione broke up laughing at that because, as usual, Ginny had hit the nail on the head in her assessment of someone.

So they spent the next three weeks cleaning up the house, visiting Sirius, and trying to listen in on meetings of the Order of the Phoenix. Harry's birthday was fast approaching, so Hermione and Ron made cards and searched out just the right present. It had become obvious from Harry's increasingly irritable notes that he'd grown quite impatient and frustrated with being kept in the dark, but Dumbledore had been clear to both her and Ron that they couldn't tell Harry anything about where they were, or what was going on. Although Hermione understood that the restrictions were for safety's sake, she could also understand how infuriating Harry must find it. "How much longer do you think Dumbledore's going to leave him there?" she asked Ron and Ginny one afternoon.

"No idea," Ron replied while sifting through a box full of old cuttings from various newspapers and magazines in the drawing room. "Blimey, listen to this! 'Recipe to cause the vomiting of blood.' Who'd _keep_ something like this? Aside from Fred and George, I mean."

"My mother," Sirius said from the doorway. "She was a bit over fond of poisons and dark potions."

Hermione, Ron and Ginny turned. Sirius had brought lunch, and they all sat down to eat right there in the middle of the floor. When they'd finished, he left again and the three of them went back to work, this time on doxy-infested cupboards in the second-floor hallway. They ran out of Doxycide halfway through, and Hermione said she'd go downstairs to get more. Just beyond the kitchen doorway, however, she heard voices and paused. She wasn't entirely comfortable eavesdropping, but it was sometimes the only way to get news. This time, it was the names 'Diggory' and 'Cedric' that halted her.

"I thought I might drop in on the Diggorys on the way back to our place, in case Lucy's there," Mrs. Weasley was saying regarding her plans to return to the Burrow for supplies. "I don't know that she needs anything, but she's been spending so much time at St. Mungo's with Cedric . . . "

"How is he?" Sirius asked.

Ron's father answered. "Not well, according to Amos. Turns out that curse is irreversible, but they've got it managed for now. He's walking -- with crutches, but walking."

"Lucius had better hope he can find the end of the world, because Lucy will chase him that far," Sirius said, then added to Mrs. Weasley, "I'd tell you to give her my regards, but I think Dumbledore might not approve of letting the cat out of the bag, or Snuffles out of Grimmauld."

"I'll find a general way of relaying the sentiments. I think I can fairly say that all of us are very sorry for what's happened to Cedric. He's such a nice, polite boy."

"Then how he came out of Lucy is anyone's guess," Sirius muttered.

"Sirius!" Mr. Weasley rebuked, but it sounded as if he were grinning.

"I like Lucy!" Sirius replied. "I always did, really. But no one in his right mind would call her 'nice.' Clever, loyal, as tenacious as a dragon -- but not 'nice.'" A brief pause. "Never did understand what she saw in Amos."

"He was quite the Quidditch player, when he was younger."

"Lucy doesn't give two figs for Quidditch."

Hermione -- who didn't either -- took several steps backward, slipping into a little alcove under the stairs, and bit the back of her hand, terribly upset by what she'd just heard. That curse had turned out to be _irreversible_? How perfectly awful for Cedric. She remembered the last time she'd seen him _before_ hospital -- winded but full of energy and determination to save Harry, racing about on two good legs, tall, powerful, and _healthy_.

Yet even when they'd visited him later, his relentless cheerfulness had made her suspect he might be hiding something about his condition. She just hadn't expected anything so . . . devastating, and wasn't used to there being nothing magic could do. Perhaps that was the ignorance of the newly initiated, but she did tend to think of magic as -- well -- _magic_. Intellectually, she knew magic had limits, but they were such different limits from Muggle science, she was inclined to believe magic could do anything.

But not for Cedric.

She tried to imagine what he'd look like on crutches, but couldn't. The mental image simply didn't compute (to use a Muggle expression). Cedric was an athlete, graceful and strong -- like Viktor. She couldn't imagine him any other way.

And what would Harry think, if he knew? _When_ he knew, because -- if this were true -- it was hardly something that could be hidden. Harry would find out the first time he saw Cedric at Hogwarts in September, and she knew he'd feel terrible.

Of course, that assumed Cedric would be going back to Hogwarts. She wondered if he would.

Finally pulling herself back together, she emerged from beneath the stairs to enter the kitchen. It was just Mr. Weasley and Sirius in there now; Mrs. Weasley must have gone already. "We need more Doxycide," she said, holding out empty sprays and wondering what her face showed, because both Sirius and Mr. Weasley were looking at her oddly. Sirius got up to fetch a canister, and Hermione licked her lips before continuing, "I've been thinking. I know it's not entirely safe, but I should probably spend another week with my parents this summer. My mother said she missed me, before I left. I feel badly about being away so long, and their house isn't really that far from here."

Mr. Weasley just nodded, as if he didn't find it an odd request. "We'll look into it. It is dangerous, but if you were my daughter, I'd miss you too."

"Thank you," Hermione said, half to Mr. Weasley and half to Sirius, who'd handed her the canister.

And if St. Mungo's were only three stations down the Tube from her parent's house, well, that was a nice coincidence, wasn't it?

Not that she'd tell Mr. Weasley or Sirius that -- or even Ron and Ginny. Especially not Ron and Ginny. They'd tease her. But she needed to see Cedric's condition for herself, and before Harry arrived at the house, to decide how to soften the blow. Given Harry's dicey mood of late in letters, if he found out Cedric was crippled only when he saw him for the first time on the Hogwart's Express, Hermione feared he might go ballistic.

* * *

With a diagnosis made, Cedric's care was transferred to a different team of healers and apothecaries. He never saw Haus again, and Ben only once more. She came to wish him well before returning to Stockholm. "Don't give up hope, Cedric," she told him. "We learn more all the time, and there are magical traditions out there with their own unique spells. We might be able to heal you yet."

He just nodded and smiled, because he was expected to. He wouldn't hold his breath. If he'd been stubbornly reluctant to accept his diagnosis, he'd latched onto his planned recovery regimen with a badger's determination, because this -- finally -- gave him something to _do_.

His braces and crutches might be magical, but that didn't excuse him from learning to get around on them. They also gave him a wheelchair, even though he glared at it when Medi-Wizard Dyer brought it in. "Comes with a Collapsing Spell, a Hover Charm, and a full Locomotor Charm," Dyer said, turning it so Cedric could see and ignoring Cedric's sour expression -- which he usually did.

Dyer was a big, balding, phlegmatic Welshman who looked as if he should be a Muggle rugby player (right down to the broken nose), not a medi-wizard. He could pick Cedric up bodily and move him with no real effort, and he took Cedric's snappishness in his stride. Once, Cedric had overheard him tell one of the under-healers, "Kid's lost the use of his legs. There'd be something cracked about him if he weren't snappy. I'm still waiting for the really big tantrum where he throws something at my head. They all do." Which, naturally, had made Cedric determined _not _to throw that really big tantrum, no matter how badly he wanted to at times.

Now, Dyer said, "No wand needed to engage any of the charms. You tap here on the wheel" -- he indicated a yellow dot --"for the Hover Charm, and right here" -- he pointed to a small pad on the right side of the bottom cushion -- "for Locomotor. Use your forefinger to direct motion -- forward, turn, backward -- it's pretty straightforward. I'll show you later how to collapse it. It'll go all the way down to pocket size. We got you a sports model -- nice and light so you don't have to engage Locomotor if you'd rather handle it manually. Sometimes that's easier, if you're just moving around a room."

Eyes still on the offending piece of equipment, Cedric struggled to keep his face neutral. "I thought I didn't need a chair?"

"You don't for most things, but if you have some distance to cover, the chair'll be faster. And you'll likely get tired, now and then. You may as well learn to work it while you're here."

So Cedric learned to walk with crutches, and handle his wheelchair. In the end, and ironically, he came to favor the chair. Compact, with a low back, high maneuverability, and sloped wheels for speed, he thought it rendered him less awkward. One of the medi-witches with a talent for art charms spelled a yellow and black badger on the back to make him laugh (not something he did much these days**:** sometimes he thought the staff went out of their way to win a smile from him). Open-fingered cyclist's gloves, to prevent blisters, now became part of his morning dressing ritual, and he took a contrary pride in being rather good with the chair within just a week. He made little use of the Locomotor Charm, preferring the exercise of moving it himself. "Your girl'll like that," Dyer told him, pinching the swell of bicep he was showing. "It's filling out your chest, too -- you don't look so skinny these days."

"I'm not skinny!" Cedric replied, offended.

"Not skinny? Like hell you aren't, boyo! Dunno how you won that Cup." Most of the ward had seen his Triwizard Cup -- and made much of it -- even if Cedric tried to keep it buried under notes, letters, and a Tutshill Tornados pennant Cho had sent him.

Dyer was right about the muscles. And if getting about in the chair was sometimes difficult, there was a certain grace to it. By the end of his second week, he could spin a perfect circle in the hospital hallway, and would race Dyer from the ward to the lift. Sometimes he won -- though usually by cheating, weaving the chair so Dyer couldn't pass him without tripping. He took to wearing tank tops, too -- not entirely because they were cooler in the unusual July heat. Cedric had his small vanities.

Yet if he felt passably graceful in the chair, he felt like a bloody awkward idiot on the crutches. He couldn't lift his legs properly and suffered from footdrop, so his shoes dragged with each step, wearing out the sides and soles. He had little metal plates affixed to the places that dragged most, which made noise on the floor in addition to the click of the crutches. All that added up to a thump, scrape, thump, scrape that accompanied him whenever he walked. Awful. He'd once flown like a swallow as Seeker for his House team. Now, he lurched down a hallway like a troll. People stared and tried not to. He hated it.

But -- as Dyer pointed out -- if he wanted to keep his leg muscles from atrophying, he needed to walk every day, and do his exercises. The more time he spent in the chair, the sooner he'd be stuck there. As he didn't want to lose his legs entirely, he did his exercises, and he walked -- however stupid he thought he looked.

He also discovered there was a mind-boggling array of 'mobility equipment,' most of it Muggle-invented and then spelled for Wizarding use if necessary -- like his chair and crutches. There were dressing aids, lap trays, reachers, and even special bathroom equipment to enable him to get to the toilet and take a shower. Grooming presented a whole new set of challenges, and he couldn't believe how frustrating it suddenly became just to take a piss. "You're lucky you're male," Dyer told him, holding up a urinal. "Not very elegant, but in the middle of the night, it's handier. Sometimes the effort of getting to the loo just isn't worth it, you know?"

Cedric swore he'd never use the thing. That lasted exactly three nights. Necessity was a harsh mistress.

But at least he could feel down there again. He'd been a little unsure about what exactly he'd have left once the paralysis spell had come off (and he was both young and male enough to care). So at the first opportunity when he was alone in the bathroom -- supposedly learning to use the handholds -- he tried a few tentative strokes to see if there was any response. There was. Everything appeared to be in working order, although he had to wait another two days before having enough privacy to see if 'working order' included proper ejaculation. It was funny how much relief he felt when he came -- and not just for the physical release. He was still normal in that department, at least.

Rather to Cedric's embarrassment, Dyer wanted to discuss _that,_ too. "You tried out the equipment yet?" he asked about three days after first being assigned to Cedric, and exactly a day after Cedric _had_, in fact, tried out the equipment. At first, though, Cedric didn't know what Dyer was talking about until the Welshman pointed at his own crotch. Then, beet red, Cedric nodded. "Any problems?" Dyer asked. "And you better tell me if there are -- being coy won't cut ice with me. It's my job, helping you adjust. That includes discussing how you keep the family jewels in working order."

"No problems," Cedric managed to cough out.

"You sure? Your girl'll be right royally pissed off with me, otherwise, especially since I can help you get that straightened out."

"No, no problems," Cedric reiterated.

"Good. Impotence sometimes happens," Dyer warned, "depending on the extent of the nerve damage, or from regular use of Abdoleo. The potion dulls everything, and can make it hard to get it up. Though that might apply more if you're thirty than seventeen."

And that brought Cedric up short. "I'm going to lose that, too, aren't I? Eventually, I mean."

Dyer turned uncharacteristically somber. "Probably. But not for a while -- with luck, a good long while. If you're thinking about kids someday, you shouldn't have any problems making them, as long as you don't put it off forever."

Cedric swallowed. "How long?"

"Hard to guess. Rather not try."

"I mean, are we talking five years here -- ten? More?"

"Likely at least ten. Probably as much as twenty. Depends on how fast the nerves go, and where."

"Bloody hell," Cedric muttered, mostly to himself. He might be impotent as early as at twenty-seven?

Dyer clapped his upper arm again. "My advice -- and your ma and da might not like me saying as much -- is to enjoy it while you got it. Pretty face like yours -- the girls'll come running."

And Cedric was strangely irritated by that. He knew he could pull the girls all right, but ironically, he'd prefer to pull someone he cared about. Given how things had been moving with Cho, though, he didn't think he'd have to wait long. If they hadn't quite gone all the way, he suspected they would, come autumn -- she'd already given him a hand job in the owlery a few times last spring and summer (which had been a bit odd, but it was private, and he'd been too worked up to care about the dry smell of feathers or owl crap under their feet).

Of course, all this assumed she'd still want to have anything to do with him when she saw him again.

She wrote to him faithfully every few days -- even if he didn't write back because he was too tired, too busy, or simply too depressed. But her letters came as regularly as clockwork, and she never complained when she didn't hear from him. He appreciated that. Yet living so far north, she hadn't been to see him in hospital. She had no idea how hideous he looked when he dragged himself down a hallway on crutches. He was freakish, ungainly, awkward -- ugly. She wouldn't want that. She'd gone to the Yule Ball with a Quidditch Captain and Hogwarts' Champion, not this . . . cripple.

He hated himself some days. Most days, really. Sometimes, he wondered if maybe he wouldn't have been better off dead. Wasn't a pretty corpse preferable to the embarrassing spectacle he was now? It made him ill-tempered, and sharp. Not very Hufflepuff.

The lack of visitors didn't help. People knew and liked him -- he'd always been popular, and he truly enjoyed company. Since the Tournament, he'd even had a fan club of sorts. But a true best mate? He didn't have one of those, and had Harry come back without _him_, there'd have been no Ron Weasley to strike out in a furious, protective rage. He'd never much thought about it until now as there had always been somebody around for him to talk to, plus his denmates for companionship, and for the most part, that'd been all right. Hufflepuffs stuck together; it was what Cedric liked most about his House. But he wasn't one to bare his soul, except to Esiban -- the raccoon wasn't going to tell anybody else, and wouldn't judge. For all his popularity and friendliness, Cedric Diggory was intensely private, and that had a downside. So he got letters from everybody, especially his denmates and Cho, but no one went out of his way to come and visit, and Cedric found himself envying Harry Potter, if not for the usual reasons. Then again, even if he'd had visitors, Cedric wasn't sure he was ready yet to be seen hobbling about on the crutches by anyone he really knew.

Thus, when Hermione Granger found him stumbling down the hallway on them -- hot and sweaty and headed back to his ward after a therapy session with Dyer -- he nearly died of the humiliation. Why couldn't he have been in the chair that day, at the least? But he wasn't. She gaped at him, open-mouthed, for five seconds before finding her voice at all. "Hi!" she squeaked.

"Come for the show?" he snapped, sagging against the hospital wall, still propped up by the crutches.

Her shocked face turned -- if possible -- even more horrified, which made him feel awful. "I'm sorry," he blurted out. "That was terribly rude. Please forgive me."

"It's all right," she said, almost reflexively.

"No, it isn't." But he didn't move from his spot against the wall, where he could at least look a little more dignified. "Is there somebody you came to visit?"

"You," she said, which surprised him. He'd just assumed their meeting an accident.

"Me?"

"I -- Uh -- Well, I know you don't know me. But, um, oh -- never mind." And turning, she headed back towards the stairs, her fair skin flaming under the bushy hair.

She was kind of cute, all flustered. "Granger!"

She looked back.

"You don't have to go. I just . . . wasn't expecting visitors. Give me a minute to get back to my ward? Then you can come up."

She tilted her head. "Come back? Why don't I just walk with you?"

And now it was his turn to blush terribly. Finally, he got out, "You don't have to watch."

And something in her face . . . changed -- became at once sympathetic but shrewd. "Don't be silly," she said. "I'm sure you're much better on those than I'd be. Come on." And she turned her back, headed towards his ward, just assuming he'd follow. "They told me you're on Bonham. You must be important, Diggory. You got the ward named after St. Mungo's founder."

For a moment, he just watched her walk away, reluctant to follow like a dog called to heel. But then he did, and he wasn't sure why, except maybe just her matter-of-fact assumption he would. She didn't turn to look at him once, at least not until she'd reached the door, which she held open because she'd got there first. It felt less like charity and more like logic. Then she followed him into the room and -- somehow -- he wasn't quite so self-conscious, even with her behind him, able to see exactly how graceless he was now.

He got back into his bed and took his pain medicine because he was achy all over (not just in his legs), then they talked a while. It was . . . strange. He didn't know Granger except by reputation as the cleverest girl in the school -- and for her attachment to Potter. She seemed nice enough, and had a prettier face than he remembered, or was popularly attributed to her. Then again, Krum had asked her to the Yule Ball and for all that Krum wasn't the dimwit some thought him, Cedric also didn't think he was quite so noble as to date a dog. Granger definitely wasn't that. He suspected any impression of plainness came from the wild hair and lack of makeup -- a false impression when one looked harder. She had lovely dark eyes that sparkled, a pert nose, a rosebud mouth, and the hint that she might have nice breasts one day --

And _what _was he doing, thinking about Granger's physical charms? He had a girlfriend. It was just that Granger was wearing a rather _tight_ white t-shirt and he wasn't blind. Not to mention the pain potion was kicking in -- he could feel it -- which lowered his inhibitions. He'd have to keep a rein on his tongue -- didn't want to offend the girl by acting like a drunken idiot or staring at her breasts.

Even if they were perky and well-shaped.

_Eyes up! _he thought. Find something else to think about.

At least with Granger there -- and his mother not -- he might finally get some answers about what was happening outside St. Mungo's walls. He still hadn't been told anything even by his mother, although she was usually the frank one. That worried him. "What's going on out there?" he asked Granger as soon as they'd exchanged the necessary pleasantries about holiday, family, and friends.

"What do you mean?" she asked.

"What's the Ministry saying about Voldemort?" She started at the name and he resisted rolling his eyes. "_Voldemort_," he said again, half just to annoy her. "It's a word, Granger. It won't conjure him out of thin air. You're Muggle-born; you shouldn't have the same prejudices."

She shrugged, coloring slightly across nose and cheeks. "I've always read that names have power --"

"It's not his real name. We might be better off worrying about using 'Tom Riddle' than 'Voldemort.'"

She eyed him curiously for a moment, then asked, "Haven't you been reading _The Daily Prophet_?"

"No. No one gives it to me. It's like a conspiracy of silence around here."

He could tell she was both puzzled by that, but also reluctant to trespass. "Come on, Granger," he said. "I'm not _fragile_. Somebody needs to tell me what the devil's going on!" He could barely keep the frustration out of his voice.

She sighed, raising her eyes to meet his and he willed himself to hold her gaze, look responsible and sane and all that. Finally she sighed again and bent forward, elbows on knees. And Merlin's Beard, did she _have_ to do that? He could see all the way down her cleavage -- which she actually had. It wasn't fair, but at least his lower body was now under blankets. And why did the pain potion have to make him _randy_? It was bloody inconvenient. Looking up, she said, "The Ministry is claiming it wasn't You-Know-Who."

"What?" He practically shouted it and she glanced over her shoulder at the door, then at the other beds. "What do you mean they're saying it's not Voldemort!" he hissed, leaning forward himself, her décolletage forgotten. "What in bloody hell are they saying _happened_ to me? That I fell off a broom?"

"Oh, they're not denying the Death Eaters. There were Death Eaters at the World Cup, and Barty Crouch Junior was convicted as one. But that's all it was, according to them -- Crouch's plot, together with some old friends, to kill his father and Harry Potter. You were 'collateral damage.'" She made air quotes around the term.

"Dumbledore was there!" Cedric said, boggled by the Ministry claims. No wonder his mother hadn't let him know. "Dumbledore _fought_ Voldemort! I saw it!"

Granger pulled her chair forward and leaned over to touch his hand in some effort at comfort. "I know. I know you saw it. They're saying Dumbledore is . . . well, senile."

"What? What about McGonagall or --"

"Loyal friends of Dumbledore. Either they don't want to embarrass him, or they're taking advantage of his unstable mind -- depends on who you read. You and Harry were 'too distressed' to know what you were seeing."

"That's . . . just . . . _idiotic_!" He felt suddenly ready to leap out of bed and stomp around -- except of course, he couldn't. "It's _Dumbledore_!"

"I know. Cedric, I'm _sorry_. Fudge just doesn't want -- Well, I don't think he's got a bloody _clue _what to do now, and doesn't want anyone to know it."

"And he thinks Voldemort will just disappear if he pretends he's not there? I _saw_ him!"

"I believe you -- and Harry. And Mr. Weasley and Professor McGonagall and Professor Dumbledore. But, well, I'm not sure most people want to believe, you know?"

"So Fudge is calling me a liar?" He was furious.

"Actually, he's not called you anything. You're being presented as the victim, here -- wounded by Death Eaters who managed to spirit you and Harry away at the end of the Third Task. But that was right after -- I haven't read anything about you recently. They're kind of ignoring you." Her expression was sheepish. "_The Daily Prophet _prints what the Ministry dictates these days."

He rubbed his brow, trying to get his head around the massiveness of the deception -- and the fact that people would actually buy into it. "Sticking heads in the sand and pretending Voldemort isn't back won't make him go away. And I can't believe Fudge is denying it. He knows we all agreed on what happened -- we were _there_. He's essentially calling us all liars!" Cedric felt himself getting worked up again, tongue loosened by the drugs. "My father works for the Ministry! Why would I lie?"

"Cedric -- "

"This is insulting! Voldemort tried to _kill_ me and Harry both! And Lucius Malfoy _cursed_ me, and I can't ever _walk_ again --"

"_Cedric!_" she said, and she was suddenly right there, bending over his bed, her hands on his shoulders. "Calm down!" She looked worried.

Subsiding, he rubbed his face, embarrassed. "It's the pain potion," he said. "It makes me say things --"

She didn't reply, but settled back in her chair. After a moment, she remarked, "Maybe that's why they didn't want to tell you. They didn't want to upset you right now."

He almost laughed. "And it would upset me less later?"

"Good point."

Looking up at her again, he managed a wry grin. She wasn't the enemy. She'd told him what no one else had. "Thank you," he managed finally.

She just nodded, then after a moment, asked, "_Will _you never walk again?" But as soon as she asked it, she blushed. "Sorry. That's nosey."

"It's all right." She'd leveled with him; he felt he owed her an answer, nosey question or not. "And no, I won't. Not without assistance." He told her what the doctors had said -- some years walking with crutches, then eventual confinement to a wheelchair. "This serum they've brewed is supposed to slow it all down to a crawl. Without it, I'd have been paralyzed within a few days, or something like that, assuming I didn't slit my own throat from the pain."

Her eyes looked damp. "I'm so sorry," she whispered. "This should never have happened to you."

He shrugged with one shoulder. "It did."

"All for helping Harry. He'll be devastated, you know. Do you wish you could do it over again and not go back?"

That brought him up completely short. "He'd have died! You think I'd rather someone had died?"

Now it was her turn to look brought up short. "I didn't mean that. I mean --" She tilted her head to the side as if unsure how to proceed. "I guess . . . I guess I didn't think. If it were me, I'd wish it hadn't happened."

"I do," he said, "wish that. But I wouldn't _un_do it, because if I hadn't gone back, Lucius Malfoy would've killed him." Abruptly, he flopped back onto his pillows and stared at the plain white ceiling. It was complicated. "I hate this -- where I am. I hate everything that's happened. I hate not being able to walk to the bloody toilet!" He raised his head again to look at her. "But if I had to make a choice between this" -- he indicated his lower body -- "and somebody _dying_?" He stopped. If he _had _known this would happen, and he'd been able to choose, would he have gone back to that graveyard to save Harry? He'd like to think he would, but wasn't sure. Could he really be that selfless, whatever Dumbledore had said? He'd learned in the last few weeks exactly what it meant to be permanently crippled. And this was just the beginning. How bitter would he feel five years down the road?

This _wasn't going to go away_. It was for life. "It's shitty -- to put it mildly," he said bluntly. "But I'd like to think I'd still have done it, even if I knew this would happen."

She studied his face, then said, "You really are something. And I don't mean that facetiously."

He wasn't sure whether to blush or scoff. Instead, he asked, "So why did you come today?"

"I told you -- to see you. I'm at my parents' this week; I've, um, been elsewhere, but my family doesn't live that far from St. Mungo's. Mum and Dad work all day, so I thought I'd drop in -- see how you were. Where's your little furry friend? I can't remember his name, quite. Esi-something."

"Esiban. The staff won't let him stay overnight. My mother brings him to visit sometimes, then takes him home."

"What does that name mean, anyway? I've been trying to guess what it is, but it doesn't sound Latin, or Greek or French or anything I recognize."

He laughed. "I doubt you would. It's Ojibway."

"It's -- what?"

"Ojibway -- Ashinishnaabeg. You know, American indigenous."

"You mean Native American?"

"First Nations," he corrected. "It's only 'Native American' in the States. In Canada, they're called First Nations. And _esiban_ means 'raccoon.' Not very creative, but, well, I was twelve."

"It sounds creative to me. And how on earth did you learn Ojibway? _Why_ did you learn Ojibway?"

"I spent a month on an Ojibway reserve. I know some people there."

"Really? Wizards?"

"_Meda_ -- yes. I stayed with them. But I don't speak the language -- just a few words."

Chin pulled in, hands resting on knees, she sat back and just regarded him a moment. "You are full of surprises, Cedric Diggory. And say the name again, slowly, so I can learn to pronounce it."

"AE-si-BAN," he said. She repeated it and he corrected her. "More staccato. Ae'siBAN." She tried again. "Better."

They continued to talk then for three hours**:** about the Ojibway, magic in America -- native and colonial -- raccoons, cats, animagi, Sirius Black (although that was conducted in whispers), Harry, and one of the books Cedric had on his nightstand about Peruvian charms. He couldn't remember ever talking to anyone for that long, much less on such a wide range of topics. For the first time in weeks, he wasn't bored. But they didn't talk again about Voldemort, or the Ministry -- or crutches.

His mother returned at tea time to find Granger still there, and the girl leapt to her feet, staring down at her watch. "It's five o'clock! I didn't even notice!"

"I didn't, either," Cedric said, a little bemused because it was true.

"I've got to go -- need to be home when my parents get there."

"Don't they know you're here?" he asked, suspicious.

"Oh, yes. It's just teatime, you know. My mother doesn't like it to be late."

"Come and visit again?" he asked impulsively. "If you've time, I mean; I'm sure you're busy. But, well, since it's not so far, maybe you could?" He didn't want to sound as if he were desperate for company (even if he was).

"I will. I promise." Then she ducked out with a muttered, "Hullo, Mrs. Diggory," to his mother, who'd watched all of this with one raised eyebrow.

"Who was that?" his mother asked as she approached his bed -- a subtle rebuke for his not introducing them.

She had Esiban in his cage and set him down beside Cedric, who opened the door to invite him out. "Come on, then. Come and see me." The raccoon waddled free and climbed Cedric's chest to sniffle all around his chin and ears. "Hermione Granger," Cedric told his mother, trying not to laugh because Esiban was tickling him. "She's a friend of Harry Potter's."

"Ah," his mother said, seating herself in the chair Granger had just vacated. "I recall meeting her now, yes. A pretty girl."

His eyebrows shot up. If he thought Granger's reputation as plain undeserved, 'pretty girl' still wasn't most people's first assessment of her. "She's very clever," he said. "Probably should have been in Ravenclaw but the Sorting Hat has a mind of its own."

Sitting back, she smiled at him, although it never quite reached her eyes. "Speaking of Ravenclaw, have you heard from Cho?"

"Got a letter from her yesterday, and I'll probably get another tomorrow. Granger's visit isn't what you think, Mother. She's Potter's friend. I barely know her." Although after talking to her for over three hours, he might have to modify that assertion.

"Who says I thought anything?"

"You didn't have to."

She laughed at him. "And you, my dear suspicious son, should have been sorted into Slytherin, where you belong."

"I'm neither ambitious nor deceptive enough."

"And I am?"

"You take pride in it." But this was said fondly. He loved his mother; he just couldn't stand her House.

Now, her lips had tipped up. "I do take pride in it. There's nothing wrong with ambition, nor deception when necessary, Cedric. You needn't always be quite so terribly _honest_. Although you lie quite well when you want to -- mainly because no one expects you to, except your mother, of course."

"I don't lie!"

"Yes. And what happened to my African mask that was hanging in the stairway?"

"I told you, I don't know --"

"I found the pieces 'vanished' into the back shed. You really need to work on that spell, Cedric."

He turned bright red. "That was a year ago!"

"And you said you don't lie."

"You're terrible." But he was grinning.

"You like intelligent girls because all boys fall in love with their mothers." She was teasing him. Her blue eyes twinkled. "I don't suppose this Granger girl's in Slytherin?"

"Are you joking? Gryffindor."

"Ah well, it's closer than Ravenclaw; that House prizes individuality too much to get anything useful done."

"Mother, I'm dating _Cho_."

"Of course you are. You talk about her _all_ the time." And rising from the chair, she said, "I'll go and call for the meal."

Cedric settled the raccoon beside him and lay back in the bed, reaching over to snatch up Cho's last letter. So he didn't talk about her all the time. That didn't mean he didn't think about her.

* * *

**  
Endnotes:** The lovely image at the top comes from the recent BBC made-for-TV movie, "The Haunted Airman" -- which, ironically, had Pattinson starring as a character confined to a wheelchair. If anyone makes a connection between Healer Haus and Dr. House, they'd be right. ; Obviously, it's not the same person, but my little quad of healers is a personal bow to my favorite medical TV show. So sue me. :-D Dyer is based on a real occupational therapist I worked with at Scottish Rite Children's Hospital, though he wasn't Welsh. He did, however, specialize in mopey teenaged boys. (G) One important observation: although Cedric has a fan following and takes Cho to the Ball -- and seems generally well-liked -- he's strangely isolated in the books. At no point is a best mate ever indicated for him, quite unlike Harry. That's no doubt because Rowling never needed to specify it, but I've decided to take it at face value. Esiban is Cedric's best friend.

While it's clear magical healing is not Muggle medicine, I presume that if wizards know the moons of Jupiter, they're familiar with human anatomy. And in many ways, doctors and hospitals are doctors and hospitals, magical or not. For the sake of common sense and my sanity, I'm going to assume some healers do specialize, just as we have GPs and specialists, and that 'healer' and "mediwitch" are generic terms given to people performing a wide variety of medical jobs, be it nursing, physio- and occupational therapy, psychiatry, surgery, orthopedics, neuroscience, and etc.


	4. The Order of the Phoenix

When she left the hospital, Hermione cried almost all the way home on the Tube. It earned her a sympathetic pat from an old Muggle woman. "With a face like that, it's either a boy or a tragedy," she said kindly.

"A little of both," Hermione replied politely. "A schoolmate of mine was . . . in an accident. Now he can't walk ever again. He's only seventeen." Why she was talking to a stranger about it, she didn't know -- perhaps just for the complete anonymity.

"How terrible," the woman said. "It's always such a sad thing, when the young are crippled." She peered at Hermione from under her straw hat. "Can't be your boyfriend, or you'd have said so, but maybe he's a bit more to you than a schoolmate?"

Hermione blushed. "No, no -- just a friend. He's got a girlfriend; he's very popular. He wouldn't be interested in me."

"No? You're a pretty little thing with all that lovely hair."

Hermione just stared. The woman thought her _hair_ was nice? "Thank you," she said, because she didn't want to accuse the woman of being barking mad.

But talking to her had helped a bit, and Hermione had her face under control by the time she got home for tea. Her mother greeted her with, "I'm buying you a cell phone, missy -- witch or not. I've been holding supper back for half an hour."

"Sorry, Mum." She kissed her mother and then her father, both still dressed in their smart office clothes, and sat down to eat. Her mother had prepared a cold meal because of the heat -- tabouli, cheese, and a salad. All the windows of their semi-detached were thrown open in the hope of catching an evening breeze to stir the gauzy net curtains. Neighborhood sounds came in**:** children playing, dogs barking, a lawnmower, a telephone ringing, somebody's radio from a house across the street -- and of course, the ever-present sounds and smells of traffic. That was one thing she didn't miss about the Muggle world -- car horns and the stink of exhaust fumes.

"So I take it you found your school friend?"

"Oh, yes. We just . . . got talking. I didn't notice the time." She let most of the meal go by before saying, "I might drop in on him tomorrow, too, when you and Dad are at work."

Both her parents glanced up at her, then at each other. "What's this boy's name?" her father asked in a tone that fairly dripped 'attempted casual but intensely interested.'

She bit back a smile. "Cedric Diggory. And he's a _friend_, Dad -- like Harry, and Ron. Well, not even that, really. An acquaintance. He's got a girlfriend."

"Well," her mother said, "As long as you're not late tomorrow, I don't see any reason why you can't go and visit him again."

So she did. And was rewarded by a positively luminescent smile from Cedric when he saw her come through the door. "Granger! You came back!"

"I promised I would."

"Well, yes, but I didn't think it'd be the next day."

She flushed hot, feeling stupid. Of course he wouldn't expect her back so soon; what had she been thinking? That he'd be sitting around, counting the minutes until she showed up? The likes of Cedric Diggory didn't need charity attention from Hermione Granger. But he was still smiling at her -- because he was polite like that -- and used his wand to call up a chair for her. "Have a seat."

Sitting down, she reached into the bag she'd brought to pull out that morning's _The Daily Prophet_. "Since you said you hadn't a copy."

"Thank you," he told her earnestly, taking it and stuffing it under his pillow.

They spent two hours talking this time. And laughing. He was funny in a sly way. When his mother arrived around mid-afternoon, Hermione decided it was time to leave, but he asked, "Come tomorrow?" which surprised her.

"Right. Of course."

His mother stood off to the side, watching with an assessing gaze. Hermione recalled what she'd overheard Sirius say of Lucy Diggory -- clever, loyal, but not 'nice.' Still, Hermione didn't think the woman looked angry or disdainful, and certainly there was none of that haughty sneer Hermione had seen on the face of Narcissa Malfoy at the World Cup, as if Hermione were slime under a rock. Then again, Hermione didn't think the Diggorys were pure bloods.

Embarrassed, she rushed off with a muttered excuse about going to the library (which was, in fact, where she was headed), but came back the next day as promised. It was a Thursday. Although she'd arrived home on Sunday, it had taken her all of Monday before summoning up the courage to visit Cedric on Tuesday. Now, she regretted not having come sooner. He seemed so genuinely glad to see her each day. Didn't he have other visitors? But she hadn't seen anybody, and he didn't mention any. That seemed very strange, that Cedric -- Mr. Popular -- wouldn't have visitors.

Today, she found him waiting for her, and not in his bed. He sat in a sleek blue wheelchair that looked quite sporty, and spun it around in place -- without magic -- to make her laugh. "I thought we'd go up to the roof," he said.

"The roof?"

"There's a garden there. Muggles can't see it. I need to get out of this place sometimes, feel the air and sun. I can't believe I'm stuck _inside_ all summer." Abruptly he paused and asked, "It's not raining, is it?"

"Raining? No." Then she remembered that his ward didn't have windows. "It's a nice day, actually. A bit hot. But, well -- I think you'll be fine, as long as you don't get sunburned."

"Not a problem, Granger. Come on." And he wheeled out of the ward. She followed, ready to open the door for him but he didn't need it, just pointed his wand soundlessly and the door swung open so he could roll out into the hallway. He obviously knew his way around, and several of the healers and medi-witches spoke to him as they passed. Just as at Hogwarts, he seemed to have become a favorite. In the lift, she turned to say, "I think they like you."

He just snorted, but it was amused, not dismissive. "That's because I'm reasonably sane and don't throw my medicine at anybody. Or my food tray."

The roof access was off the tea rooms, and they headed out into the sunshine. The garden was enormous, but Hermione had learned that in the magical world, apparent size and actual size bore little relation to one another. Other patients and visitors sat on benches under gazebos, or strolled along paths wide enough that she and Cedric could travel abreast, even with him in the chair. Spring flowers were long past, summer heat leaving only the hardiest of them still in bloom, such as marigolds and petunias. He didn't move quickly, but not because he couldn't. She'd been amazed by how he'd sped down the hallway, earlier.

Now, he seemed to be enjoying the air too much to be in a hurry, and turned his face up to the sun more than once, eyes shut, a small smile on his face. And although he didn't say it -- didn't say much at all, in fact -- she had the impression he'd brought her to the gardens to share something _magical_ (and not in terms of its actual magical properties). Hermione, who'd been accused more than once of chattering like a magpie, found herself matching his quiet. It was comfortable -- which surprised her, as Viktor's silences had often just annoyed her. Yet Viktor was _always_ quiet so Hermione had felt compelled to carry on her half of the conversation and his, too. Cedric, she'd discovered, could talk plenty when he had something to say. If his reputation at Hogwarts for being low-key and phlegmatic was sometimes equated with thick-headedness (especially by the likes of Fred and George), such an assessment was, Hermione thought, half jealousy and half an inability to recognize intelligence that didn't feel a constant need to show off. Cedric conversed to exchange ideas -- not to prove himself right, or to display what he knew. He asked her questions, and seemed genuinely interested in what she thought. In fact, more than once, she'd paused to give him a chance to interrupt, and then when he hadn't butted in, she'd felt self-conscious and kept talking until yesterday, when she'd started to repeat herself yet again in different words, he'd finally cut her off to say, "Have you finished?"

She'd blinked and replied, "Well, yes, I suppose so, but --"

"Then shut up."

It had surprised her so much, she had. He'd been smiling. "You don't have to say something over and over again, Granger. Just say it once -- then shut up." She might have been offended, except he'd very clearly not been making fun of her, unlike Ron and Harry, who seemed by turns amazed by what she knew, or defensive about it. Cedric was neither.

Even before yesterday, his manner of conversing had drawn a completely new response out of her. She found herself asking _him_ questions, to hear what _he_ thought. Instead of debate, they engaged in mutual discovery.

Talking to Cedric was _exciting_.

And maybe that's why she was content to be quiet now. Silence didn't scare him. He wasn't shy, or retreating into it -- like Viktor. He simply . . . wasn't talking. So she watched him watch those around him. Cedric didn't miss much, she thought.

She also noticed, out in the sunlight, how very pale he was from being cooped up inside for more than a month. His hair was mostly brown now, though she remembered it as blond-streaked. It was also rather a mess, and he needed to shave -- not something she was used to seeing on him. At Hogwarts, he'd always been so extremely well-put-together, hair styled, tie neat, shirt tucked in, robes pressed. Today, she wasn't entirely sure he'd even _combed_ his hair. Then again, he probably spent most of his day in bed and there wasn't much reason for him to dress up for her. Had it been Cho, he'd look a bit different, she thought.

But she liked it that he didn't feel the need to dress up; she was being given a glimpse of the real Cedric Diggory. And although she'd been dressing up for him, she doubted he'd noticed what she wore.

"You're very good with that thing," she said now, of the wheelchair.

"It's a bit like riding a broom, in an odd way." She thought she caught a shadow pass over his face, but wasn't sure. She wanted to ask if he could still ride a broom, but was afraid to, in case the answer was 'no.'

"The crutches are probably less trouble," she said instead.

His smile faded. "I look like an idiot on them."

"Not especially." It wasn't even a lie, but he jerked his head around to stare up at her, his expression conveying his perfect skepticism without a need for words. "You don't," she told him. "Really. You . . . look like a person walking with crutches. That's all."

"And that's not --"

"No," she interrupted. "It's not." But she couldn't really blame him for worrying about such things. "The crutches will be easier to get around on at Hogwarts. And you really don't look idiotic at all. So stop worrying about it."

"I'll take that into consideration, Granger."

"I do have a first name, you know."

"I know. It's also three syllables. Granger is two."

She turned to gape at him. "You can't be _that_ lazy."

"Sure I can." He was grinning again.

"Then I shall have to call you Diggory!"

"Diggory is three syllables. Cedric is two. Ced is just one." She stared at him; she thought he might actually be _serious_. "Or," he went on, slyly, "I _could_ call you Hermy."

"If you call me 'Hermy,' I'll push you off the roof."

"Then I'd better stick to Granger unless I do have a broom."

"Can you still fly?"

It just . . . popped out, and she winced.

"I haven't tried." His expression sobered. "I don't know, but I think maybe I could."

"I hope so. You seemed to like it."

"I do." He eyed her. "You don't?"

"It's all right. But" -- she blushed -- "I'm a bit afraid of heights. I don't like planes, either."

His playful smile came back. "Then I shan't tell you to look over the side of the roof." And, "You've flown on a plane? What was it like?"

"You haven't?" That surprised her. "But I thought -- You went to Canada -- "

"By _portkey_. Not by plane."

"Well, it's . . . a bit tedious, really. And the seats aren't quite big enough. You'd probably hate it, with your long legs. The cabin gets stuffy, and dry." She thought about it further, wrinkling her nose. "I'm not sure I really prefer portkey, though. How _did_ you manage not to fall on your bottom, on the way to the World Cup?"

"Practice. You'll get the hang of it." He turned his chair down a side path and she followed. It was a bit odd to find herself looking down at Cedric; he'd always been so _tall_. "I don't mind heights," he said, returning to the previous topic. "When I was a boy, my father kept having to pull me out of trees. I'd get up in one, then couldn't get down."

She smiled at the mental image of a young Cedric stuck up a tree like a cat. "I remember you jumping out of that tree on the way to the World Cup. Startled me a bit."

"I was trying to see where you all were. Dad was getting impatient. Then again, he's usually impatient." But the criticism sounded more fond than annoyed.

"You seem to get on well with your parents."

"I do. My friends think me a bit peculiar."

"Because you get on with your parents?"

"Exactly." He eyed her sidewise. "What about you, Granger? You fight with your mother?"

"No, not really. I --" She frowned. "I suppose I live in such a different world now, we've drifted apart. I wish I _did_ fight with her sometimes. It'd give us something to talk about."

His expression was thoughtful. "That must be terribly hard. I can't imagine having been born a Squib."

"It's not _that_ bad, you know, living as a Muggle."

He grinned at her defensive tone. "I wasn't criticizing Muggles, Granger. I just said I couldn't imagine living as one -- or really, making the transition. That's the hard part, I think." He eyed her. "What's the strangest thing you've found, moving from one world to the other?"

It was the most interesting question anybody Wizarding-born had ever asked her. Mr. Weasley just wanted to know odd details and bits of Muggle trivia, nothing she considered very important, and the rest of them almost pretended she _wasn't_ Muggle-born, even those who were so themselves, like Dean, or Harry. She supposed they wouldn't need to ask questions, but still. They never talked about it, and the near-silence on the topic sometimes bothered her.

"The strangest thing," she said now, "was -- and is -- realizing that magic has its own set of laws and limitations."

"Really? Why does that surprise you?" He seemed genuinely curious.

"Well, in the Muggle world, when you say something's 'magic,' you mean it doesn't make sense. It doesn't obey the laws of physics. In short, it shouldn't work. There's a scientific explanation for everything. Moving into the magical world, there isn't a scientific explanation. But that doesn't mean there's no explanation. You see?"

"Biases," he replied.

"I'm not sure I'd call them 'biases' so much as 'expectations.'"

"And expectations aren't biases?"

She glared at him -- because he was making her think, not just accepting what she'd said. "Biases are _unreasoned_ expectations."

"Ah -- there you go. Everybody has biases, Granger. We just need to figure out what they are, so they don't trip us up, you know?"

And in that moment, Hermione realized she could fall quite completely for Cedric Diggory . . . which wasn't a good idea, as he had a girlfriend -- whom she happened to like -- and he wasn't interested in her. But the boy had a brain, and he wasn't afraid to use it. She found that _terribly _attractive.

"Why did you ask me that?" she inquired. "You're the first person to ask me such a thing in the four years I've been at Hogwarts."

He shrugged. "People interest me, and the differences between cultures. Wizarding culture, Muggle culture -- they are and aren't the same. I spent a little time in the Muggle world, and I've wondered what it might be like, to go the other way."

_"You_ lived as a Muggle? When?"

"In Canada." He turned that charming smile on her again. "I _can_, actually, use a telephone -- and a microwave. I just wouldn't want to do it all the time."

She laughed. "You know, Diggory, you can be really odd at times."

"See? I told you -- _peculiar_."

And that only made her laugh harder. They talked and walked (or rolled, in his case) for another hour before going back in. And whatever he'd said about sunburn, his fair skin was looking pink, and he was sweaty from the heat and exertion, his damp, messy hair curling on the ends and at the nape of his neck. She tried not to think about how she wanted to run fingers through it, neaten it up a bit (and see if it was as soft as it looked).

In the lift, he turned in the chair to look up at her -- and caught her staring. For just a moment, there was a connection there, like electricity, sparking hot between them and making her weak in the back of her knees. The pupils of his gray eyes had dilated, and that was not just a _friendly_ look. Hermione couldn't breathe, felt herself falling, pulled like gravity. And if gravity wasn't a Wizarding concept, it still functioned in the Wizarding world. It was functioning now, sucking her in -- sucking_ them_ in. This wasn't supposed to happen. She wasn't supposed to want another girl's boy.

She coughed and looked away, and suddenly, the ride back to the fourth floor wasn't comfortable at all.

_You _could_ fall for Cedric Diggory,_ she told herself. _But you won't. Because he's not yours to fall for._

* * *

Cedric was enormously grateful when the lift doors opened and he could escape. He needed, just then, to get away from Granger -- because he didn't want to. And he realized that since Tuesday, he'd been thinking about her far too much. He was spoken for already, and whatever his mother thought, he did care for Cho. Not to mention Hermione had gone to the ball with Viktor Krum, and she'd been his 'treasure,' too, for the Lake Task. Krum would drop-kick Cedric for looking sideways at his girl. And Cho would help.

Heavens, what was he thinking? (Was he _thinking,_ at all?)

So what if Granger was witty, pretty, dependable, and clever? She was also bossy, a know-it-all, and disinclined to listen to other people, or so he'd heard. Cho was not bossy, not a know-it-all, and liked to listen.

Just like him, and he didn't need Cho. He needed Granger. He needed his antithesis, for balance. But he was a little afraid that if they ever actually met in the middle, they might spontaneously combust. It had felt that way in the lift. His heart had been racing and his blood on fire for no reason but meeting her dark eyes.

_She's not yours,_ he told himself firmly.

The awkwardness of the lift continued as they moved down the hallway, but the visitor they found waiting for them back at Cedric's ward erased all such personal matters.

"Professor Dumbledore!" Cedric and Hermione said at the same time. Hermione looked -- to Cedric's eye -- a bit guilty. He wondered what that was about.

"Miss Granger," Dumbledore said. "Would you mind waiting in the hall? I wish to speak to Mr. Diggory alone."

--which request certainly got Cedric's attention, wondering what could possibly bring the Headmaster of Hogwarts to St. Mungo's just to speak privately to him. "Please," Cedric said, gesturing to the ward door. Dumbledore preceded him inside, then settled in the chair beside the bed, idly flicking his wand once as Cedric settled in. Cedric could tell from the way the air reverberated that what they said now could be heard only by themselves.

"I'd like to learn that spell," he muttered.

Dumbledore just smiled. "I'm sure you will someday. Just now, I need to ask you several questions, and I require honest answers." Dumbledore's eyes were piercing when he wanted them to be. "Not, mind, because I think you're inclined to lie, but because you _are_ inclined to . . . adjust your replies, if you believe the full truth might be hurtful or unwelcome."

Cedric blinked. He wanted to say that was untrue -- but of course, it wasn't.

"As kind-hearted as the impulse may be," Dumbledore went on, "what is needed now is absolute truth, regardless of whether you think I want to hear it. Understood?"

Puzzled and slightly alarmed, Cedric nonetheless nodded agreement. "All right."

"First, how much do you know of what is happening outside these walls?"

"A bit." Despite his promise, Cedric was reluctant to divulge what he did know if it might get Hermione into trouble.

Dumbledore just smiled. "More than 'a bit,' I suspect, if you've been talking to Miss Granger." Cedric opened his mouth to defend her, but Dumbledore just raised a hand and shook his head. "She is not in trouble, Cedric. Or not for that. I didn't ask her not to speak to you, so she has trespassed no orders. In fact, I had no idea she'd planned to visit you at all, and I fear I will have to ask her to go back to a safe place after today."

"She's not safe?" Cedric sat up straighter. "What's she doing here, then?"

"Keeping you company, I would wager." Cedric blushed (for reasons he couldn't explain and didn't want to examine closely), but Dumbledore just smiled. "It is not a crime to be lonely, Mr. Diggory. But in the current climate, for Hermione, a Muggleborn close to Harry Potter, to travel unprotected is not safe. If she wishes to return, I'll arrange to have her escorted to and from -- and I see no reason she shouldn't return, as according to the medi-witches, you've smiled more in the past three days than in the last four weeks."

Still blushing, Cedric asked, "Maybe -- if it's that dangerous -- she should just stay away then?" Yet he wondered if he were really worried about Hermione, or just about the current comfortable construction of his world. He had a girlfriend, she had a boyfriend, and maybe spending so much time together wasn't a good idea -- not if that moment in the lift repeated itself. Dumbledore was eying him curiously, and Cedric glanced down. "The potion will be ready tomorrow anyway," he went on, "and they think I should be going home in a week after that."

"As you wish. Back to my questions. I presume you know the official Ministry position on what happened this summer?"

"Yes. They're idiots. It drives me crazy."

That brought a tiny grin from the headmaster. "See -- it _is_ possible for you to be blunt and impolite, Mr. Diggory, and it doesn't even hurt." Cedric laughed in spite of himself. Somehow, he'd never have expected Dumbledore to encourage him in rudeness. "Although I can't say I'm displeased to hear your assessment. I take it, then, that you would hold firm in your report of what happened on the 24th of June, which you gave to Minister Fudge when you first arrived at St. Mungo's?"

"Absolutely."

"Has anybody spoken to you about this since?"

"No. Granger -- Hermione -- seems to think they're ignoring me." He wasn't sure why he'd corrected himself on her name, but in a strange reversal, Granger had become _his_ name for her, and Hermione what he'd call her to others. He should probably have recognized that possessiveness for a bad sign.

"I think her assessment correct. You are their problem, you see. The others present -- Harry, Professor McGonagall, Mr. Weasley -- all have long-time associations with me. They can be more readily dismissed as a party to my madness. You, however, occupy a different category, and are therefore a bit harder to explain. Being the Triwizard Champion -- legitimately -- helps. But I want to be very clear that if you do persist in holding to your story, you may face a certain amount of unpopularity in the coming months."

Setting his jaw, Cedric said, "I'm not going to lie just because Minister Fudge wants me to."

"Even if your father's job were on the line?"

That brought Cedric up short. "What? They'd sack him if I don't go along with what they want me to say?"

"Not directly for that, but excuses can be found, and the winds of change blow quickly. I want to be frank with you that there could be consequences."

Cedric's jaw just got tighter. "They can bloody go to hell."

Dumbledore chuckled. "There is a lot of your mother in you, Cedric -- but not a little of your father. He said something similar."

"He did? You've talked to him about this?"

"Indeed. Your father is rather . . . disgruntled with the Ministry's refusal to acknowledge the full cause of your injury, or to arrest Lucius Malfoy for casting a spell that's only escaped the list of Unforgivable Curses by virtue of not having been seen in nearly seventy years. But I wished to know what you thought before you heard what he thought." Dumbledore's eyebrows went up, and Cedric remembered the headmaster's earlier appeal to him for honesty. "My next question concerns how much you wish to be involved in this fight against Voldemort, which you were accidentally drawn into against your will."

"Accidental or not, I'm involved. I can't walk because of him, and it being an accident doesn't mean it's against my will -- especially not now." After having seen Voldemort in that graveyard, he couldn't imagine _not_ taking a stand. "Nobody asked Harry, either."

Dumbledore nodded, as if he'd expected Cedric to say that, but had to inquire. "You are, still, a student, but you are also of age, and I shall not insult you by denying your right to choose -- as long as you are aware of the consequences. Do you plan to return to Hogwarts in the autumn? I have assumed so, but it really is your choice."

Cedric realized that he hadn't, in fact, given it a lot of thought, just assumed as well. "I still have NEWTs to take. So yes, I think I'd like to, if Hogwarts can, well -- if I can get around."

"We've had both students and teachers before with ambulatory issues." Dumbledore winked. "There are quite a few modifications to the castle that aren't widely known, which I'll show you when you arrive in September. Your ability to get to your classes will not be an issue. But it did occur to me that coming back to Hogwarts, as you are now, might be a difficult hurdle for you."

And Cedric frowned. He'd been somewhat intentionally NOT thinking about having to walk down hallways on crutches and being stared at, and pitied -- or laughed over. But he couldn't hide in a hospital for the rest of his life. "It's not going to be easy, no," he said now, started to say more, but just finished with a shrug.

Dumbledore seemed to understand the unspoken. "Then, Mr. Diggory, I would like to make you an offer. Normally, these choices are simply conferred as an honor. In this case, however, I am not doing you a favor and you have quite enough to be going on with, without adding more to your shoulders. This matter will require no little amount of shrewd diplomacy and personal restraint -- yet I think there's no one better suited to it, if you're willing. Therefore, I am _asking_, not telling. Would you be willing to accept the office of Head Boy for the coming year?"

Utterly astonished, Cedric just blinked.

It wasn't being selected as Head Boy that floored him. Truth was, he'd half expected it, whatever he'd told Susan Bones, and if he wouldn't have been angry had someone else been chosen, he couldn't say he wouldn't have been disappointed.

What shocked him now was that Dumbledore had _asked_. To Cedric's knowledge, no one had ever been _asked_ in the whole history of Hogwarts. One was made Head Boy -- or not. And the fact that Dumbledore _was_ asking meant Dumbledore knew something nasty was coming, and Cedric was getting Head Boy because the Headmaster trusted him -- both for his loyalty and his symbolic value. Cedric wasn't unaware of the latter. He started to ask, 'What if I said no?' but shut his mouth on the question because there wasn't any point in asking it. He wasn't going to say no.

"Yes, of course." He kept his voice as steady as he could manage. If Dumbledore needed him in the fight against Voldemort, he'd do what he could, even if it had to be from a wheelchair.

Dumbledore held his eyes for a long time, and Cedric suspected he was checking Cedric's thoughts. Cedric didn't attempt to resist. Finally, Dumbledore nodded. "Very well. You'll receive your badge along with your usual letter, and additional instructions." He held out a hand to Cedric, who took it. "I'd say congratulations, but I believe a thank you is more in line." He let Cedric go, then leaned in a bit. "Now, Mr. Diggory, let me tell you about the Order of the Phoenix . . . "

* * *

"You joined it." His mother's greeting to him later that evening was almost reproachful.

"Pot, kettle," he replied. "You joined too. He told me."

"That's different. They need me, and I'm quite a bit older. This is dangerous, Cedric. You were a baby when the Dark Lord rose last time; you don't remember what it was like --"

"You'll be in more danger than I will," he retorted, annoyed. "And I want to fight."

"You have no idea! People _die_." She collapsed in the chair by his bed, almost as if her legs wouldn't hold her up. "To the young, war sounds glorious. It's not. I know what they can and will do to you --"

"They've already done it, mother."

"Yes! And I don't want them to take more!" She wasn't crying; her eyes flashed and she got up again to stalk around his bed like a golden lioness. "Dumbledore had no right to ask!"

"He had every right. Or rather, _he owed me the offer_. That's how I see it. And if you're going to fuss about me, I can fuss about you. If they find out you're involved in this, you'll become their _special_ target. Right up there with Potter and Black. I assume you know about Sirius?"

She waved a hand. "We talked. But that's why they need me."

He resisted snorting at her logic -- or lack of it. "I'm an adult now," he said finally. "I can make my own decisions."

"You're a seventeen-year-old boy who thinks he's immortal. You may be allowed to use magic unsupervised, but you're not an_ adult_."

Piqued, he resisted snapping back because that's what she wanted him to do so she could prove her point. He'd been living with his mother's psychological tactics far too long to be so easily caught. "I'm only an 'adjunct' member anyway -- that's what Dumbledore called it -- until I finish school. He said the twins will probably join then, too."

"That's Molly's problem. You're mine."

He found he could only grin. "You know I love you, mum."

"You're maddening, Cedric. And this conversation is not over. You can be Head Boy, but don't just assume you'll be graduating into full-scale Wizard battles. You're on _crutches_!"

And oh, that didn't just prick, it _stung_. But she _was_ crying now, and she spun around to stalk out before he could say anything else. Sagging back on his bed, he glared up at the ceiling.

* * *

**  
Notes:** Because Cedric's chair is a _fixed_ wheelchair, it's more stable ... and wouldn't normally fold up (although wheels do come off). But, well, it's magic. (G) He can collapse it down to fit in his pocket (an option that would be the envy of anybody who actually has to use one).


	5. Trials and Tribulations

Note: From here on out, it'll be necessary to have a general idea -- if not perfect recall -- of events in _Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix_. Some events from that book will not be rewritten in _Finding Himself_, but knowledge of them may still be assumed.

* * *

Hermione knew she was in the doghouse even though Dumbledore said virtually nothing to her as they exited St. Mungo's. But once they were on the street, where not a few passers-by stared at him, he turned to face her. "Miss Granger, while I appreciate -- in fact, applaud -- your concern for Mr. Diggory, you were taken to headquarters for your own protection. Was there a reason you've been sneaking out of the house to come down here?"

"I wasn't sneaking. Sir," she said. "I got permission to visit my parents. St. Mungo's wasn't far, and . . . I thought it might be polite to pay a visit to Cedric. I really didn't expect to keep coming back, but I don't think anyone's been to see him all summer -- odd as that sounds -- and he seemed, well, _lonely_. I wasn't_ sneaking_," she repeated.

He continued to watch her, but she couldn't meet his eyes. "You have been very lucky," he said finally, then his whole manner changed from mildly disappointed to instructive. "Regarding Cedric . . . as you've no doubt gathered, he's much beloved in his house, and greatly admired. But that, itself, can be distancing. After all, how can one be a true _friend_ to devotees? I believe Cedric could do with a friend, especially now -- one who isn't either bedazzled or intimidated by him."

Embarrassment pinked her cheeks. She'd been bedazzled, all right -- but by a real person, not an idea. "I'll keep it in mind, sir," she said.

And so she was returned to Number Twelve, Grimmauld Place, if not in disgrace, at least in disfavor. "Why didn't you tell me you were going to see _Cedric Diggory_?" Ginny demanded almost as soon as she could get Hermione alone to do so.

"Because I didn't know that I would. I went to see my _parents_, Ginny; Cedric was a . . . sidetrip."

If not strictly true, it was true in spirit. Originally, she'd gone to see Cedric for Harry's sake, nothing more, whatever Ginny was implying. And while the story of Dumbledore finding her there had been related to the house at large, Dumbledore _hadn't _mentioned the two _other_ times she'd been there, nor how lengthy each of her visits had turned out to be.

Ginny, of course, was ignoring Hermine's attempt at deflection. "So what's he really like?"

"Very nice," Hermione said, then immediately realized how inane that sounded and tried to elaborate. "He's clever, of course, and rather funny. But just . . . such a lovely person -- genuinely _nice_. I can't think of a better adjective. Talking to him, you'd never guess he's the most popular boy in Hufflepuff."

"Hufflepuff? Try all Hogwarts." Ginny flopped back on her bed. "Cedric Diggory . . . " she trailed off in an almost stereotypically dreamy tone. "He's _gorgeous_."

And that annoyed Hermione for the sake of the boy she'd come to know; it brought to mind what Dumbledore had said outside St. Mungo's. "And quite human, Ginny. He doesn't walk on water, at least not that I saw, and it might be better if people stopped talking about him like he was St. Peter."

Both eyebrows raised, Ginny lifted her head to stare at Hermione. "Wow -- tetchy!"

"I just -- I don't think it's fair to Cedric to put him on a pedestal like that. He's bound to fall off."

Ginny laid her head back again, grinning. "Somebody's got a crush."

"I do not!"

"Don't lie. You're _so _bad at it. Just join the rest of the female student body -- and a few of the boys -- in the Diggory Appreciation Society."

Hermione threw her pillow at Ginny. "I am _not_ joining any such society, Ginevra!" But Ginny only laughed in reply. Still annoyed, Hermione turned her back to unpack, putting away clothes and tucking under her bedside table three new books she'd bought on Wednesday afternoon when she'd left St. Mungo's following her second visit to Cedric. As she'd passed a bookshop window on her way to the library, she'd noticed a particular title propped up on display under "new books." So she'd dropped in. And if she'd never reached the library, she'd come home three books richer all the same.

Well used to Hermione and books, Ginny might have paid no attention except -- "Those don't look magical." She was craning her neck to see the colorful, paper covers.

"They're not. Research," Hermione said.

"For what? I thought you dropped Muggle Studies two years ago? Seemed a kind of pointless class for you anyway."

"I wanted to get the Wizarding perspective," Hermione said, then added, "And this is some research for next year."

"It's _summer_, Hermione," Ginny reminded her, but as Hermione had suspected, it deflected Ginny's interest. Hermione, books, and research were a sacred trinity, eternal and immutable, and therefore boring. Much later that night when Ginny was well asleep, Hermione slipped the top book from the stack and pulled it under her covers, switching on the torch she'd borrowed from home. The title -- which had first caught her attention in that bookstore window -- stared up at her in yellow letters on bright blue**:** _Easy For You To Say. Q & As For Teens Living With Chronic Illness Or Disabilities_. She hadn't lied to Ginny. It was research for next year. It just didn't have anything to do with classes, and somehow, she didn't think she'd find a book like this in the Hogwarts' library.

* * *

Coming home undid him.

By the time he left St. Mungo's, Cedric was, if not reconciled to his crippling, at least neither hopelessly depressed nor impossibly angry. He was mostly glad to be getting out of hospital, in fact.

Until he reached home.

It was the ramp his father had installed around the back, so he could enter his own house, that did it. Probably he could have climbed the front steps on crutches, or just levitated himself, but his father had gone to the trouble of altering the rear entry so he didn't need to do either one, adapting the house to suit his needs rather than forcing him to adjust to the house. The message was clearly meant to be: _You belong here._

Instead, the message was: _Nothing will ever be the same -- even home. _And he felt damaged all over again.

He couldn't bring himself to leave the Ministry-loaned car. He just sat in the back, face in hands, fighting to get a hold of himself. His father kept asking what was wrong until his mother ordered Amos out of the vehicle. "Take your time," she said to Cedric, and climbed out herself. Then they spelled in the piles of things that had come back with him from the hospital -- clothes, cards, letters and assorted other tributes from friends, as well as the Triwizard Cup.

It took him almost half an hour before he could get out of the back seat and, on crutches, make his way into the house in which he'd grown up.

The changes inside were no less significant, but at least he'd known one was coming. His bedroom -- which had occupied the attic from the time he'd been seven -- was now on the ground floor. He could probably have reached the attic still, but it simply wasn't practical on a regular basis, and there was plenty of space downstairs. He'd adopted the attic as part of his general fascination with getting to the top of things -- trees, roofs, high seats at the pitch, and eventually into the sky with a broom -- but the place was, if no mansion, still a sizable country house.

Built in the very early 1800s for a family the size of the Weasleys, seven generations of Diggorys had lived here and only the most recent had produced but a single child. Besides a drawing room, kitchen, dining room, gallery, and study, there was a bathroom, master bedroom and second bedroom downstairs, plus a solar-cum-studio, another study that served as a library, a bathroom, and more bedrooms upstairs. And that didn't count his attic, or the basement. His parents had simply moved all his things down to the room at the end of the hall, rearranging it as best they could to fit into the more regularized space of four even walls rather than slanting ceilings and tucked-away corners.

But he'd loved that attic, and sitting in this room, he felt cold despite the wide windows letting in bright summer sun. It wasn't his, and he didn't know if it ever would be. Yet he also couldn't run up two flights of stairs several times a day to fetch minor things. This was a pragmatic change.

After he'd faced his new room, accepting the other changes came easier -- handholds in the bathroom, widened doors to admit his chair, little ramps to cover the steps leading down into the kitchen and scullery. But an unexpected difficulty could send him flying into a rage, such as the back hall connecting kitchen and dining room being too narrow for his chair. It required a squeeze charm -- which he didn't know how to do yet because it had never come up. So he had to go through the porch gallery to get to the dining room.

This problem of the chair being too wide affected most of the house, really. If doors had been altered, when he moved down the hall even a small weave would crash a wheel into a chest or bookshelf. Thus, after less than a week, he ditched the chair in favor of the crutches, and before long he'd learned patterns of movement that allowed him to get from place to place using furniture or shelves for support without crutches at all. It wasn't walking unaided, and he still couldn't carry much in his hands, but at least he didn't always have to cart around 'extra limbs.' Also within that first week, he'd stopped thinking about how he looked every time he moved. He became more focused on getting there.

But he didn't go out of the house much, even here in the country. He spent his days reading, listening to the Wizarding News Network on the wireless, or writing letters to friends while his father was at the Ministry and his mother went up to work in her studio, door shut to mean she wasn't to be disturbed. He'd learned young that an open door invited company and admiration for her latest project. A closed one meant her head was in her painting, and nothing short of the whole house being on fire was a valid excuse for interruption.

"Master Cedric! Medicine!"

He looked up from his study. (A letter to Professor Flitwick about squeeze charms had resulted in a package containing a small notebook full of handwritten spells "that you might find of use, Mr. Diggory"; Cedric had been touched by the kindness.) Strawberry their house-elf was holding out a small tray with a vial of pale yellow liquid. "Thank you, Berry." He downed it as she watched -- to be sure he did -- then she scurried off again. He didn't return to the notebook but dropped his head back against the blue floral wing chair he occupied and let his hands rest on the arms. His involvement with the spells had distracted him from the growing discomfort in his lower body. It wasn't sharp pain that he dealt with these days -- although occasionally he suffered bad twinges in his right leg -- but chronic, throbbing aches and cramps, as well as tingling in his feet and toes. Reaching into his pocket, he pulled free a small silver flask and took a sip, then let his head sag back again until the Abdoleo took effect.

When the first batch of Restituo Potion had been ready, his Abdoleo concentration had been halved -- yet if Restituo protected and even restored his nerves enough that he wasn't in intolerable pain, he no longer enjoyed the strong analgesic he'd had at hospital. On the one hand, Abdoleodid dull his wits and made him act out of sorts (as that moment with Granger in the lift had shown), but learning to deal with chronic pain left him sharp tempered and impatient with his own body, and often tired because he slept poorly. Dyer had warned it would take a while to learn to manage (or really, ignore) the pain. He just hoped he succeeded before school began; the last thing he needed was to drift off in McGonagall's NEWT class because he'd tossed and turned half the night before.

And of course, sitting quiet in the chair, his aches eased for the moment, he did drift off. His father's stomping arrival through the front door into the gallery woke him. "Cedric!" his dad called, startling him badly enough that he jumped and knocked the notebook onto the floor.

Before he could bend over to fetch it, his father had swooped in to retrieve it for him and hand it back.

"I could have got it, dad."

"I know you could, but, well, there's no reason for you to. You just take it easy, son."

Cedric resisted pointing out that bending down wouldn't kill him, and in any case, he'd been able to handle a Summoning Charm since his third year. But his father, dressed still in work robes, pulled up a stool to sit down in front of his chair. "I have some bad news. I just heard it today from Arthur Weasley. Harry's under threat of expulsion from Hogwarts."

"What?" Cedric sat up straighter. "Why? This isn't to do with the Ministry attempts to deny --"

"Indirectly, yes. He was attacked by dementors last night --"

_"Dementors!"_

"-- and used a Patronus Charm to protect himself."

"Well, if he was attacked by dementors, of course he did!"

"Unfortunately, Fudge's office is claiming it can't be dementors." Cedric thought his father looked troubled. "They're questioning what dementors would be doing away from Azkaban -- and I have to admit, they have a point."

"Dad, if Harry said there were dementors, there were dementors. He doesn't lie like that."

"Arthur said the same thing. We shared lunch in his hole of an office; that man collects the strangest things. But in any case, and according to Arthur, Harry was attacked by dementors in an alleyway together with his . . . cousin, I think it was. A Muggle. He had to drive them off with the charm."

"I thought Dumbledore said somebody from the Order would be --"

"Somebody _was_ supposed to be there. A man named Mundungus who you've not met, an old soak and petty thief. Can't imagine why Dumbledore's bothering with him; he's not exactly reliable, is he? Left Harry early to conduct some shady deal. It's a right miracle the boy survived that attack."

"Harry's talented."

His father glared a moment; Cedric knew that Amos Diggory still resented the fact Harry's participation in the Tournament had virtually eclipsed Cedric's own -- and that his son had come back wounded, but not Harry Potter. Yet his father hadn't seen Harry's eyes, or he'd know Harry was wounded, too. Cedric just shook his head. His father was a good man, deeply devoted to those he loved. He'd defend them irrationally (even when they didn't want to be defended), and to object to his father's even more embarrassing praise seemed ungrateful to Cedric. But it put him in the difficult spot of having to offend one person's loyalty in order to avoid hurting another. "Dad," he said now, "Harry _is_ talented. Exceptionally, in fact. Nothing that happened was his fault; he's as much the victim here as me. Don't blame him. Please."

"I don't."

Rather than argue with that, Cedric changed the subject. "So what's going to happen to Harry?"

"He's got a hearing scheduled in Amelia Bones' office. They'll determine then if it's an expelling offense. Technically, it shouldn't be -- certainly not if those really were dementors. We're hoping everything turns out for the best -- Amelia's very fair -- but, well, in the current climate . . . " His father trailed off.

Amelia Bones was Susan's aunt, and Cedric was already planning a letter to his fellow Hufflepuff. "When's the date of the hearing? Do you know?"

"The twelfth of August. We'll know more after tonight; your mum's got a meeting at headquarters."

"Not me? Or you?"

His father just pulled in his chin and looked at him a little sideways. "You're an _adjunct_ member. And I'm staying home with you -- only one of us is really needed." What he didn't say, but Cedric could guess, was that he was staying home to keep an eye on Cedric.

After supper, with Esiban sitting on his desk, watching, Cedric wrote:

_Dear Susan,_

_ Thank you for your last letter, and I'm sorry I haven't answered before now. I was discharged from hospital about two weeks ago, and things have been rather chaotic since. I am home, and quite well. But if life is chaotic, there's not much of actual interest about my day, so I'll spare you the boredom of a recounting._

_ As you've probably heard by now from your aunt, Harry Potter has been accused of practicing underage magic and is under threat not only of expulsion from school, but of having his wand broken. Minister Fudge doubts his claim that he performed the spell in self defence._

_ Susan, I believe him. If Harry says he acted in self defence, he did. I 've no idea if you've got any influence with your aunt, but for what it's worth, Harry has my complete faith._

_ I look forward to seeing you and everyone again in September. Be well._

_ With Affection,  
Cedric_

He read it over twice before sending it. He thought it vague enough not to give away any secrets, and general enough not to _ask _Susan to do anything in particular. He was never comfortable with that. But he was fairly sure she'd get his message, and if she could do something, she would. Badgers took care of their own -- including honorary badgers who happened to be lions.

* * *

The night that Harry was attacked by dementors, the whole house at Grimmauld Place fell into an uproar with people coming and going, and Dumbledore in a towering rage the like of which Hermione had never before seen. It all quite thoroughly distracted her from Cedric Diggory. But amid the chaos and rather to her surprise, Dumbledore took a moment to pull her aside. "Given these developments, and Harry's likely state of mind, I think it best if you avoid mentioning anything about Cedric's current condition to him. He'll have enough to worry over without adding Cedric, as well."

Hermione wanted to protest -- Harry was more likely to resent having it concealed -- but given that she was already on thin ice, she didn't think protest a good idea. Instead, she asked, "After the hearing, may I tell him? I think, sir, he should know about it before seeing Cedric on the Hogwarts Express."

Dumbledore seemed to consider this, then agreed. "Very well. You may tell him after the hearing."

"What if he asks me -- directly, I mean -- before? It's no secret I went to see Cedric."

"It's not, but I find it unlikely anyone else will bring it up." And he excused himself -- polite as always despite being much in demand that day -- and left her standing in the den.

Sirius came in shortly after, looking angry and worried at once. Seeing her troubled face and misinterpreting what had her troubled, he said, "The Ministry can't convict him. It was self defense."

"Yes, of course," Hermione agreed, sitting down on an overstuffed footstool, one of the few comfortable pieces of furniture in the room. Then she blurted, "Dumbledore told me not to tell Harry about Cedric."

Sirius appeared thoughtful. "I'm not sure I agree, but I don't want Harry feeling guilty over Cedric, either. Lucy -- Mrs. Diggory -- says Ced doesn't blame him."

"He doesn't. He told Harry so back at Hogwarts when we visited him in hospital."

She and Sirius just sat together for a few more minutes then, wrapped in their private apprehensions. "He'll be all right," Sirius reiterated finally, "The Ministry can't convict him for self defense."

"Of course not," Hermione agreed, again.

When Harry arrived the next evening, Hermione became preoccupied with trying to keep his mind off the trial and dealing with his frustration and anger. If she couldn't exactly blame him for being frustrated, when he yelled at her and Ron, bellowing (among other things): "WHO HAD TO GET PAST DRAGONS AND SPHINXES AND EVERY OTHER FOUL THING LAST YEAR? WHO SAW HIM COME BACK? WHO HAD TO ESCAPE FROM HIM? ME!" she felt tears of outrage on Cedric's behalf sting her eyes. Harry wasn't the only one who'd gone through hell during the Tournament. And at least he could still _walk_.

But obedient to Dumbledore, she kept her mouth shut. It didn't stop her from comparing Cedric's reactions to Harry's, though. Cedric had been furious at having things kept from him as well, but even angrier at the Ministry's campaign of disinformation. It had been his honor that he'd worried about -- a man's upset, rather than a boy's tantrum. Then again, Cedric was seventeen, almost eighteen, and Harry just fifteen. And if Hermione herself was not-quite-a-year older, she was suddenly very aware of the age difference.

She pondered sending an owl to Cedric, telling him about the dementor incident (she thought he'd want to know), and asking his advice on how to handle Harry. After all, if anybody could understand, it was Cedric. But given that moment in the lift, she wasn't sure if she should. After he'd spoken with Dumbledore at St. Mungo's, she'd had a brief chance to bid him good-bye before being escorted out. He'd thanked her for her visits but hadn't said anything to her about coming back -- or writing. And she thought his eyes might have kept sliding away from hers, except hers were doing the same, so she couldn't be sure.

But later that same evening, when she, Harry, and Ron were finally permitted to hear more about the Order, she climbed up after to the room she shared with Ginny and sat down at the desk, getting out parchment and ignoring Ginny's pleas to tell her everything. "In a moment," she said. Then she wrote:

_Dear Cedric,_

_ I hope you won't mind my writing to you. I'm not sure if you've heard about the Ministry hearing for Harry, but as your father works for the Ministry, perhaps so. If not, I thought you might want to know. It amounts to charges for the underage use of magic, even though he was defending himself. He's being threatened with expulsion from Hogwarts. It's all very ridiculous; they can't convict him. But Harry's upset, and for reasons I don't entirely understand myself, Dumbledore kept him at his aunt and uncle's until just recently. They're Muggles and so he hasn't known what was going on anywhere. I'm sure Dumbledore's just trying to protect him, but he's very angry about it all. I suppose I can see both sides to the matter._

_ And, well -- this is why I'm writing -- I don't really know what to say to him. I thought you might, being as you were in the same position earlier this summer. He infuriates me and makes me want to cry for him at the same time. I can't blame him for being angry -- I really can't -- but I'm at a loss._

_ Please forgive me for imposing on you, but any advice you might have would be deeply appreciated. I'll understand, though, if this isn't something you want to talk about, or if you've got lots to do. There's no need to write back if you don't want to._

_ Sincerely,  
Granger_

She wasn't exactly sure why she'd signed it 'Granger' instead of 'Hermione,' or even 'Hermione Granger,' but she'd done it on instinct. It took her an hour to decide to send the letter, however, and she went to bed that night very restless, waking the next morning, half anticipating an owl with his reply, and half anticipating she'd never to hear from him again.

A little before noon, his reply came, delivered to her by a rather bemused Mrs. Weasley.

_Granger,_

_ I'm glad you wrote. Yes, I've heard about the charges brought against Harry. You're right -- they're ridiculous. But that doesn't mean they're not serious. For what it's worth, I'm trying to pull a few strings, but I'd rather not say how, and I fear they won't amount to much. You should know, as well, that Dumbledore told me all about phoenixes, and I'm participating as much as he'll allow. I won't say more by post. Ask our mutual furry friend who lives there._

Hermione read that paragraph three times. Dumbledore had told Cedric about the Order? And he was _in_ it -- or at least partly so? He also seemed to know where she was staying, given the last line (she'd been quite round-about in her original post address). She'd been aware he knew about Sirius, but she hadn't realized he knew about Grimmauld Place.

_ As to your other question -- I'm not sure how to advise you, really. All I can say is what I might want myself, were I in Harry's shoes. But I'm not Harry; we're very different people. For what it's worth, my advice would be just to listen and not to take offence when he blows his top, even if what he says hurts your feelings. Remember that when people are angry, they say things they don't mean. I've yelled at my parents a lot this summer, and I mean really yelled. I felt just awful later. Fortunately, my mother's quite good at ignoring me when I'm being an idiot, and my father pretends he didn't hear. It's probably a good thing more people haven't been to see me, or my school reputation as Mr. Polite would be completely shot. (Ha! I'm joking, you know. My House says I'm Mount Vesuvius -- a dormant volcano -- which is true. I put a hole through a door during fifth year when Zacharias Smith gave me grief once too often. Got detention with Sprout ... along with Zacharias. Zach doesn't give me any more trouble. Or at least, when he does, I just put him in a headlock instead of putting a hole through my door. It's more effective and less messy -- for the door and my hand, both.)_

Hermione blinked and laughed. She could easily see Zacharias giving people grief but not _Cedric_ punching a hole through his door. Yet it was like Cedric to become Zach's friend (of sorts) in the wake of it.

_In any case, I believe Harry depends on you quite a bit -- that's what I saw during the Tournament, both before the dragon task and later. In the Lake, when I got down there, I wasn't sure who he was trying to cut free first -- you, or Ron. So when he yells at you, remember that. I'm sure he doesn't mean it._

_ Be well,  
Ced_

She read the letter several times more, half memorizing it, then sat down to write back:

_Dear Cedric,_

_ First, please be very careful with phoenixes. I understand they can bite. You know what I mean, and I'd rather not visit you in hospital again._

_ As for your temper, you hide it well -- at least, most of the time. When the Ministry isn't being stupid and censoring facts, that is. As for getting angry about that, if you hadn't, there'd be something wrong with you._

_ And I think you're the only person in school who can stand Zacharias Smith for more than five minutes. Your reputation as Mr. Polite is quite safe._

_ Last, I appreciate your advice, and your honesty on such a personal matter. And your words about Harry and the Tournament, and me. I suppose it's what I knew already, but wasn't terribly sure if there were perhaps more I could do, or say. And if so, what?_

_ Well, I won't take up more of your time, but Harry's hearing is the 12th of August, so please keep him in your thoughts on that day._

_ Sincerely,_  
_Granger  
_

She wasn't sure why she'd apologized for taking up his time, but his answer -- so prompt and personal -- had thrown her. It hadn't read like a letter to a semi-stranger, but a note to a friend. Did he consider her a friend? (Dumbledore had perhaps implied it, or at least implied that she could be.) And if he did consider her a friend, how close of one? Enough to joke about his temper and confess to yelling at his  
parents, and feeling badly for it. And what would Cho think of all that?

Sighing, she folded her own note and attached it to Hedwig's leg. She wasn't sure Harry realized she was borrowing his owl to send notes to Cedric about him, but Hedwig didn't seem to mind the excuse to escape the house.

* * *

Cedric read Hermione's second letter several times, trying to stamp down both disappointment and confusion. On the one hand, it seemed friendly enough, but she'd made it clear (_I won't take up any more of your time_) that she didn't expect a reply -- in fact, might not want one. Then again, she'd stated in her original letter why she'd written to him in the first place: she'd wanted advice on Potter. It wasn't an invitation to correspondence. Once she'd received the advice, she was done with him.

It made him wonder about the hours she'd spent with him in hospital. He'd thought something was there -- friendship, anyway. He'd never found a girl -- a _person_ -- he could talk to like that. But had there been an ulterior motive for her visits then, too? Or had she just felt sorry for him? He didn't need pity, and he didn't know what to think anymore. So he didn't write back. But he had 12th August marked already on his calendar.

On that day, he woke early and dressed in his school robes. He wasn't exactly sure why he did so, but he was working on instinct. Sometimes instinct served him best when anticipating people's reactions, and his guesses were often right. Making sure his prefect badge was still attached to the black fabric, he went downstairs to get breakfast from Berry while he waited for his father.

When Amos Diggory arrived in the kitchen only to find Cedric already there, he halted in the doorway and blinked in surprise. "You're up early. And dressed for school? Did I miss an announcement or something?"

"I'm going into London with you," Cedric said quietly around a mouthful of egg.

His father clearly wasn't sure what to think of that, and didn't immediately respond. Instead, he took his packed lunch from Berry and two pieces of toast. "You should eat more for breakfast, dad," Cedric said, helping himself to another slice of bacon, which he shoved in his mouth before standing, braced on the crutches.

"I'm not a growing boy." His father was still studying him. "You know you won't be allowed into the hearing, right?" It wouldn't have taken much for his dad to guess why Cedric was planning to accompany him _today_ when his parents hadn't been able to pry him out of the house for over three weeks. "A hearing isn't a trial."

"I know that," Cedric replied after he'd swallowed. "I just . . . want to see Harry beforehand." Be there, in case. In case of what, he didn't know, but he had a bad feeling about it all.

"All right," his father agreed, and Cedric was relieved. He'd half-expected a quarrel, or at least opposition.

They left the house together and his father glanced back at him as he stopped on the drive at the usual spot from which he Apparated. "Will you need my help . . . ?"

"No. I can do it." Well, actually he had no idea if he could still do it, but he wasn't going to ask his father to Apparate him, too, as if he were a child. He'd been able to Apparate for months. In fact, in light of the Tournament, Dumbledore and Barty Crouch had secured him permission to take his test early**:** last autumn, instead of waiting for spring with the rest of the sixth years.

Yet the crutches changed things.

"You go first then," his father said, and while Cedric would have liked to protest, he could see the logic of it. If he tripped and fell and splinched himself, he'd need someone there to sort things out.

Taking a deep breath, he positioned the crutches just so to take the little step-and-turn, then he just . . . did it. Didn't think about it, just did it, felt the familiar squeeze, and he was standing in a small, old, narrow alleyway near a pub. He glanced down at himself. He appeared to be entirely there, and he let out the breath he'd been holding. A moment later, there was a crack and his father -- grinning broadly -- was beside him, clapping him on the shoulder. "Good boy. Let's go."

Because Cedric was with him, Amos Diggory took the visitor's entrance, and Cedric got his visitor's badge. When they arrived in the long atrium with its polished walnut floor, his father escorted him past the fireplaces and the fountain to the gold gate and security desk where his wand would be registered. The man, who appeared bored and barely glanced up, took Cedric's wand and set it on a scale, then accepted the printout. "Ash, unicorn-hair core, twelve and a quarter inches . . . that's long." He peered up at Cedric. "Tall kid --" Then, abruptly, he seemed to realize who Cedric was. "Amos? This is . . . _Cedric_?"

"That's right," Amos Diggory said, grinning as if amused and clapping Cedric on the back. "Wondering when you'd wake up, Eric. Had your coffee yet? Cedric, meet Eric Munch, Ministry security."

Munch almost leapt to his feet and held out a hand to shake. "What an honor! Cedric Diggory! Our Triwizard Champion!"

Embarrassed but compelled to be polite, Cedric shook the man's hand. Munch waved Cedric and his father on. "Never mind the search. Not going to insult our Triwizard _Champ_." He flashed Cedric a grin, and Cedric tried to return it -- wasn't sure he really succeeded. Others in the atrium had stopped now to stare, and he heard the whispers. "Diggory's son." "The Triwizard Champion." "The one who came back crippled." "Oh, I read about that -- how sad." "He was such a tall, handsome boy." "Such a shame."

Couldn't they see him standing here? He wasn't deaf, and he gritted his teeth, felt his father's hand squeeze his shoulder. Here, now, it was his father's steadfast support he needed to get through this. But he couldn't have not come today. He tried to close his ears to the whispers. And the pity.

He and his father took a lift up to Level Four where he planned to wait until it was time for Harry's hearing. Then he'd go to Amelia Bones' office on Level Two, just to be there, shake Harry's hand -- let him know he wasn't alone -- and wait to learn the outcome.

His father worked in the Beast Division of the Office for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures, and handled, among other things, registration and licensing for magical pets such as crups, kneazles, and puffskeins. Cedric had grown up surrounded by animals his father had found abandoned and brought back to the farm for fostering until a new home could be found for them. That was, Cedric had often thought, his father's _real _vocation. The Ministry job just earned him a living. At the moment, his father had four crups at home that he was giving obedience training to, and a pair of kneazles, and there were six more crups in kennels and a kneazle mother with kits in the office. Cedric played with the kits while his father dropped his briefcase on his desk. A memo flew in the open doorway, zipping past Cedric's nose to land neatly right on top of the creased brown leather. Picking it up to unfold it, Amos scanned it quickly, then tossed it in the air in a characteristic display of temper. "_Another_ crup pup mill's been reported south of London. I thought we'd got the last of those. Damn the idiots. Interbred crups don't make good pets!" he declared as he headed out. "Back in a bit, son. Need to talk to Benjamin about this."

Cedric smiled to himself. His father had a new crusade. He'd be happy for at least a week.

But under five minutes later, his father was back, looking startled and a bit flummoxed. "Harry's hearing's been changed," he said. "I just ran into Kingsley. It was supposed to start at eight, sharp -- fifteen minutes ago -- and they've taken Harry down to Tenth Level."

"But that's --"

"Courtroom Ten, yes." His father's dark eyes were worried.

"That's not a hearing, dad."

"It's a trial," Amos Diggory agreed. "Or as good as."

Cedric didn't wait to hear more. Replacing the kits he'd had in his lap, he grabbed his crutches and pushed himself to his feet. "If it's a trial, they've got to let me in. Trials are public."

And he was out the door. "Cedric --!" his father's voice drifted after. "Watch yourself!"

Cedric wasn't sure what his face looked like, but people got out of his way as he headed back to the lifts. His heart was beating hard; his premonitions had proved more prophetic than he'd have liked. At the lifts, he paced back and forth on his crutches, punching down buttons at random in a fury. People stared. He didn't care. When a bell announced an arrival, he swung around and hobbled over as fast as he could -- although he wouldn't have made it had Kingsley Shacklebolt not been in it to hold the gate open. "Thanks," Cedric muttered. Shacklebolt was one of the few members of the Order Cedric had actually met, as the Auror had been to their house several times to talk to his parents. Cedric liked him, but here, now, he couldn't let on that he knew the man. They stood side by side and stared silently at the doors as the lift rattled downward.

After a minute, Shacklebolt whispered, "You got my message," under cover of a loud conversation between two witches behind them.

"I did. Thanks. They're after blood, aren't they?" Cedric asked.

Shacklebolt didn't reply. The lift had reached the atrium, but as he exited he shot Cedric a glance and small nod.

In fact, all the remaining riders exited at the atrium, leaving Cedric alone in the lift as it descended to the Ninth Level, where the door rattled open with the announcement, "Department of Mysteries."

Cedric practically exploded out of it. He'd never been down here, but he knew by reputation where Courtroom Ten was located. At the end of the Level Nine hall was a plain door, and he turned there to face the stairs, muttering, "Crap." They were old, of slick stone, and moderately steep, and he couldn't get down that in a hurry. Collapsing one of his crutches, he used the other and the rail to make his descent. The last thing he wanted was for his right leg (the untrustworthy one) to go out and send him crashing to the bottom on his arse.

He managed to avoid it, and at the bottom, muttered, "_Engorgio_" to his crutch, expanding it again. Then he turned right to head down the dungeon hall towards Courtroom Ten. It was a long walk, and there was a guard posted outside who impassively watched him come. When Cedric had reached the soot-grimy door, he said, as politely as possible, "Excuse me."

The man stood directly in front of the iron handle, and bore a great pike upright. Yet as soon as Cedric spoke, he swung the pike down sideways to block the entrance. "No admittance by order of Minister Cornelius Fudge. This is a private hearing."

Cedric's manners fled. "Like bloody hell," he snarled. "If it's being held in Courtroom Ten, it's a _trial. _Trials are open to the _public_, by the Wizengamot Charter of Rights." Cedric had verified all that the night before. "You can't keep me out."

The guard just looked Cedric up and down. "How do you plan to get past?" he asked, sneering a little. His point was obvious -- he had the pike and Cedric was on crutches.

For just a moment, Cedric saw red. Everything that he'd suffered in the past two months simply boiled over. "Get. Out. Of. My. Way!"

The sneer turned into a smirk. "Or what?"

Cedric had his right crutch collapsed and his wand out so fast the guard was taken completely by surprise, but before he could do something rash and foolish, he heard a quiet, "Wand down, Mr. Diggory," behind him, and spun, almost falling, balanced as he was on but one crutch.

Dumbledore stood there, an elderly woman with him. His eyes held Cedric's calmly. "You needn't do that."

"It's not a hearing!" Cedric snapped. "They can't keep me out of a trial!"

"Nor will they." Dumbledore stepped up to the man at the door. "Alfred, I have information and witnesses pertinent to the disciplinary hearing of Harry Potter. Please admit us at once."

Cedric had stepped back beside the old woman, who smiled up at him and patted his arm despite looking nervous herself. "It'll be all right, dear," she whispered even as the guard at the door reluctantly raised his pike and stepped aside. He might have been willing to stop a schoolboy barely of age, and take obscene pleasure in it, but he clearly wasn't prepared to hold off the greatest wizard of their age.

"Come, Cedric," Dumbledore said and, as Cedric passed him at the doorway, muttered, "Stand at the back and don't say anything unless I call you forward. Let me handle this." The woman, whoever she was, appeared to be staying outside for the moment.

"Yes, sir," Cedric replied, and, "Thank you, sir."

Cedric had never been in this room, but he'd heard plenty of stories. Square and dank with rising benches all around the perimeter and lit by dim torches, the chained chair of the accused sat in the center. Just now, Harry occupied it, facing the entire assembled Wizengamot. At least the chains weren't binding him, but he looked as pale as death, and turned in surprise at Dumbledore's entrance. Several in the court rose, as if to protest. As promised, Cedric made his way to the side just under the benches nearest the door on the left. Harry was staring at him, mouth open in shock. Cedric nodded once and smiled a little. Harry didn't smile back, but his face . . . eased, perhaps, and he returned his attention to Dumbledore. Cedric himself looked up at the witches and wizards assembled. He recognized the Minister of Magic there, and Susan's aunt, Amelia Bones. She looked right at him, one gray eyebrow raised over her monocle -- but not as if she were angry. More as if she were surprised and curious at his arrival. He smiled at her. She'd been in Hufflepuff once, too, Susan had said. She might understand why he was here, why he'd had to come.

But most of the witches and wizards were more concerned with Dumbledore than with Cedric, which was fine with him.

"--witness for the defense," Dumbledore was saying, "Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore. And character witness for the defense, Cedric Gwalchmai Cerne Diggory."

Cedric could feel the eyes shift to him again, and Harry turned once more. Cedric gave him a covert thumbs-up, which made the boy smile finally.

An exchange between Dumbledore and Fudge followed, about trial times and notification owls, and then Dumbledore called up a chair for himself and sat down. Cedric might have liked to do the same -- his right leg was hurting him after the stairs -- but he felt it important to stay on his feet . . . crutches in full view, and school robes displayed neatly. He caught Percy Weasley's look of disapproval and it almost made him smile. The uptight git. He wondered what Percy would think when he learned that Cedric had inherited his old position as Head Boy?

Fudge then read the charges against Harry, who replied to each, growing increasingly upset and desperate. Cedric wished he could intervene, but he'd promised Dumbledore he'd be quiet and let the headmaster handle this. And Dumbledore didn't look worried, so Cedric probably shouldn't be -- but it _hurt_ to see Fudge so callous with Harry. The suppressed rage in Cedric's gut was stirring again, bubbling up like an overcooked cauldron. He bit his tongue, literally, in an effort to keep quiet.

Finally, at the mention of the dementors, Susan's aunt interrupted, "You produced a fully-fledged Patronus?"

"Yes," Harry told her. "Because --"

"A corporeal Patronus?"

"A -- what?"

"Your Patronus had a clearly defined form? I mean to say, it was more than vapor or smoke?"

"Yes, it's a stag. It's always a stag." Harry was sounding somewhere south of desperate, though Cedric himself was glad to see Madam Bones take over from Fudge. That was very much in Harry's favor, whether or not the boy knew it.

The exchange went on for a bit until she declared, "Impressive. A true Patronus at that age . . . very impressive indeed."

And Fudge, feeling the trial was getting away from him, spoke up almost petulantly. "It's not a question of how impressive the magic was. In fact, the more impressive the worse it is, I would have thought, given that the boy did it in plain view of a Muggle!"

"I did it because of the dementors!" Harry said.

"Dementors?" Madam Bones asked, "Yes, I believe my niece did say something to me about this being in self defense." And Cedric nodded slightly to himself, struggling to keep back his smile. Susan had come through for him. He owed her a bear hug. "Explain what you mean, boy."

And Harry tried, but Fudge was right there to undercut him, implying Harry was making it up for attention, or to conceal his crime. Cedric ground his teeth as matters fell to sniping, but Dumbledore cut across it. "We do, in fact, have a witness to the presence of dementors in the alleyway -- other than Dudley Dursley, I mean."

Eyes shifted back to Cedric, but Cedric knew Dumbledore wasn't talking about him. There was more debate between Fudge and Dumbledore until Madam Bones backed up Dumbledore's assertion that Harry had a right to witnesses and Percy was sent out to fetch whomever Dumbledore had meant. It turned out to be the elderly woman who'd told Cedric not to worry, though she still looked quite nervous. And Cedric suddenly noticed that she was wearing _house slippers_. Had Dumbledore packed her off straight from a rocking chair? Not exactly the best impression. He ran a hand down his neatly pressed robes.

The woman, named Mrs. Figg, proved to be a Squib, which might have explained some things. Her testimony sounded half rehearsed, and Cedric wondered what that was about. Surely Dumbledore wouldn't have brought a false witness? Cedric was tempted to put a hand over his face when she described dementors as "big and wearing cloaks." Could she _be_ any more generic?

But when pressed by Madam Bones, she went on, "I felt them. Everything went cold, and this was a very warm summer's night, mark you. And I felt . . . as though all happiness had gone from the world . . . and I remembered . . . dreadful things . . . "

Cedric shuddered. The woman had seen dementors, all right. He could clearly remember the first time he'd felt them on the Hogwarts Express two years ago. It had been as if every nightmare he'd ever feared had come alive in one moment, turning his flesh and blood to ice.

Fudge, of course, wasn't convinced -- but Cedric thought Madam Bones was. A few more exchanges followed, and the poor old woman was released. She hurried out as Fudge said, "Not a very convincing witness."

"Oh, I don't know," Susan's aunt said. "She certainly described the effects of a dementor attack very accurately . . . "

Yet more debate ensued over the likelihood that dementors would show up randomly in a Muggle subburb, until Dumbledore interrupted again to say, "Oh, I don't think any of us believe the dementors were there by coincidence."

That got near-instant silence, until Fudge asked, "And what is that supposed to mean?"

"It means I think they were ordered there."

And that devolved into a heated argument about who the dementors were taking orders from these days. Cedric listened carefully to Fudge and the woman called Umbridge, Fudge's Undersecretary, who had the hideous appearance of a human toad with a ridiculous bow in her hair. Ghastly.

In the midst of the debate, Dumbledore suddenly turned to the back of the courtroom where Cedric was still standing. "I call our second witness, Cedric Diggory."

Cedric nodded once and clumped his way forward. He'd been wondering if he'd be stuck in the rear, silent throughout the whole trial -- and suspected that Dumbledore might have hoped so. But for his own part, he was ready and past ready to _do_ something. Even if he had no idea what the headmaster wanted him to say, precisely.

As he drew even with Dubledore's chintz armchair and the chained seat in which Harry sat, Harry looked up at him, then dropped his eyes to the crutches. The boy's entire expression was pinched with guilt and between that and his look of complete surprise earlier, Cedric wondered whether anyone had told him about Cedric's crippling -- even Granger. But perhaps that meant Granger really had come to hospital just to see him.

He found that thought strangely encouraging and straightened his back as best he could, facing the assembled court.

Madam Bones nodded to him, ever so minutely. "Mr. Diggory, we've heard a convincing report of a dementor attack on Mr. Potter, and Albus Dumbledore claims that He Who Must Not Be Named has, in fact, returned -- and that these dementors may be under his control, not the Ministry's. You were among those present on 24th June." She paused, then asked bluntly, "Is He Who Must Not Be Named back?"

"Yes," Cedric replied as clearly and calmly as possible.

The entire Wizengamot erupted in noise. It was one thing for Dumbledore to say such a thing, or even for Harry Potter. Cedric had read the articles that summer in _The Daily Prophet_ and heard what had been said on the Wizarding News Network -- the insinuations and jokes about Potter's capacity for fibbing or attention-mongering. And everyone knew of his connections to Dumbledore. But Hermione had been right.

Cedric Diggory saying Voldemort was back was quite another matter.

Fudge stood, his solid, square face red. "How could you possibly know, boy? You never saw him when he was alive, and you were distraught that night, under extreme pressure, you can't --"

"I know what I saw," Cedric snapped, then took a breath and went on more calmly, "I wasn't that distraught. When we arrived at the graveyard -- Professors Dumbledore and McGonagall, Mr. Weasley, and myself -- I was ordered to take cover. I wasn't supposed to have gone back." He glanced down at Harry, who was watching him with wide eyes. "I acted without thinking, and so when Professor Dumbledore told me to hide -- I did. They had enough to face without worrying about me. I took cover behind a tombstone out of the way of the fight, and saw everything that occurred right up till the moment Lucius Malfoy moved forward to attack Harry. That's when I broke cover to --"

"Mr. Diggory!" Fudge interrupted. At the name of Lucius Malfoy, half the Wizengamot had drawn sharp breath and begun muttering. "Mr. Diggory, that is quite an accusation against an _upstanding_ member of the Wizarding Community and very _generous_ humanitarian. You cannot possibly expect us to believe _Lucius Malfoy_ was present that night and fought among Death Eaters! Preposterous! Given your youth, and your obvious . . . infirmity . . . I'll pretend I didn't hear you make such a claim."

Completely enraged, Cedric bent forward on his crutches, almost spitting in his fury. "How _dare_ you call me a liar! Lucius Malfoy _cursed_ me, Minister Fudge. I'll never walk again because of that bastard. I'm not --"

"Silence!" Fudge shrieked. It rang around the chamber. "Silence!" And Cedric knew his outburst had blown whatever credibility he might have had with half the court. The other half looked troubled, but not outright angry -- including Madam Bones.

"Thank you," she said now in her booming voice, halting the exchange before worse could ensue. "You've answered our chief question. The witness is excused."

And Cedric had no recourse but to withdraw again to his place at the back of the court. He could feel the eyes of everyone following him as he made his way back -- thump, scrape, thump, scrape. For once, he wasn't ashamed. Let them all see what Malfoy had made him.

The silence lasted only a few moments, however, before Fudge, Dumbledore, and the rest were back to quarreling. Cedric wasn't listening closely; he felt like a fool. He'd let Fudge get to him, make him react instead of act. But the Minister had implied Cedric's handicap somehow affected his powers of judgement, not just his legs, and Cedric was boiling again inside. He'd never felt so insulted in his life.

His anger preoccupied him so much he missed the actual conclusion of the trial, which seemed to have turned into a struggle between Fudge and Dumbledore for things more esoteric than underage magic, including authority over Hogwarts, and Cedric had to kick himself for not paying attention. Meanwhile, the Wizengamot was chattering urgently among themselves while Dumbledore and Harry waited for them to finish deliberating. Finally, Madam Bones called for the vote. "Those in favor of clearing the witness of all charges?"

Cedric counted hands. That was clearly a majority, and he closed his eyes, breathing out. Whatever idiot he'd made of himself, it hadn't affected Harry's outcome, thank goodness.

"And those in favor of conviction?"

Cedric's eyes snapped back open. There were hands up -- Fudge's, predictably, but others, too. Cedric made a note of the faces, even if he didn't know all the names. Fudge glanced around and saw he was in the minority, then snarled, "Very well, very well . . . cleared of all charges."

"Excellent," Dumbledore said, and stood up, looking spritely. "Well, I must be getting along. Good day to you all." Vanishing the armchairs he'd summoned, he headed out, leaving Harry to stare after him. As he passed Cedric, though, he said softly, "You did very well, Mr. Diggory, despite everything. Fudge was intent on provoking you; don't be too hard on yourself over it. See to Harry."

And he was gone, leaving Cedric to stare at Harry, who stared back from the room's center.

The Wizengamot was breaking up now, witches and wizards chatting animatedly but not really paying the boys any attention -- except for one. Madam Toad, as Cedric had named her to himself. The woman Umbridge. She watched them both as Harry took a deep breath, then hurried over to Cedric. "Is it true?" was the first thing out of Harry's mouth. "You can't walk ever again?" His face was horrified.

"It's true."

"They didn't tell me!" Harry exploded. "Why didn't they tell me!?

"I think you had a few other things on your mind," Cedric pointed out.

"It doesn't matter!"

"Yes, it does," Cedric said quietly. Harry glared at him, but Cedric just stared back until Harry dropped his eyes. "Harry," Cedric went on, "there's nothing you could do. And it's _not_ your fault -- I told you that before, right?"

Harry looked back up, still glaring. "It's not," Cedric reiterated, then abruptly lost his temper again. "Just stop it, would you? Stop it! It makes me feel awful!" Harry was gaping at him and Cedric realized that -- conversely -- they'd switched roles from the last time they'd met, when Cedric had been the one feeling guilty for having left Harry behind in the graveyard. "I've got enough to deal with now. I can't handle your guilt on top of it!"

"Sorry," Harry blurted. "I didn't -- I wouldn't -- That wasn't -- But if it weren't for me, you'd still be able to walk! This is my fault!"

"No, it's not," Cedric snapped. "It's Lucius Malfoy's fault. He's the one who performed the curse. _He_ did this to me -- not you. And if I'd been thinking, I'd have realized I had no business going back to that graveyard. In the end, it was good that I did -- but that doesn't make my own choice any less foolish. Learn to recognize where real blame lies, Harry. It's very . . . frustrating, you know, when you blame yourself or other people apparently at random."

Harry flushed, dropping his eyes yet again, but with a mulish expression on his face at Cedric's scolding. Cedric didn't regret pissing him off, though; Harry needed to hear the truth just like Cedric himself did sometimes. More gently, Cedric added, "It sounds like you've had a bloody terrible summer -- we both have. I'm not angry with you, Potter. I just want you to be reasonable here, okay? This" -- Cedric tapped a crutch on the floor -- "isn't your fault."

Harry nodded abruptly, but still couldn't meet Cedric's eyes. "I just -- if you feel awful for me feeling guilty, imagine how I feel? You're _crippled_. That should never have happened to you! And then here, today -- you came here and did this for me, stood up for me, despite everything."

Cedric thought about how to respond. "I'll accept that you feel badly; that's an honest reaction. But I won't accept your guilt -- and I don't need any pity. I could use a friend, though."

That got Harry's attention, and he raised his eyes. "Absolutely," he replied, then added, "We'll get Malfoy, Cedric." He sounded much older, and more certain, than his fifteen years.

"I'm sure we will," Cedric replied. "And you can call me Ced, Harry. My friends do." They shared a grin. Whatever came next, Cedric knew that today, he'd found someone who'd always watch his back. And he'd watch Harry's, as best he could.

* * *

**Notes: ** Cedric's socio-economic class was never specified, but I've guessed upper middle class. "Gwalchmai" means "Hawk of May" and is the Celtic name for Gawain (knight of the Round Table, older foster brother to Arthur). "Cerne" (also Herne) is the Celtic god of the hunt, associated with Cernunnos**. **_Easy For You To Say. Q & As For Teens Living With Chronic Illness Or Disabilities_ is a real book; it's now available in a revised edition, though Hermione would have had the original. The pragmatic and (in some cases) blunt approach is really useful. Originally published in the mid-summer of 1995, I'm not entirely sure it would have been available in the UK immediately, but let's fudge and pretend. ;

Note on spelling: As an American, I use US English spelling in all narrative -- for my and my editors' sanity -- but for the _letters_, written by British characters, I use UK spelling.


	6. Pact Made

Cedric and Harry left the courtroom amid the stream of various witches and wizards even as Arthur Weasley was pushing his way in. "Harry?" he asked, shooting Cedric a curious glance but then refocusing on the boy. "Dumbledore didn't say."

"Cleared," Harry replied, "of all charges!"

And the shadow of fear fled Mr. Weasley's face. Gripping Harry by the shoulders, he spoke earnestly. "Harry, that's wonderful! Well, of course, they couldn't have found you guilty, not on the evidence, but even so, I can't pretend I wasn't -- " he broke off and glanced around him as witches and wizards continued filing out. "Merlin's beard, you were tried by the full court?"

"I think so," Harry said.

"He was," Cedric agreed. "This was no hearing. Fudge." Cedric didn't need to say more than the name.

At that very moment, Percy Weasley passed them. He was carrying an armload of parchment and looking straight ahead as if too busy to see his own father. What in blue blazes was that about? "Percy," Cedric said politely to force Percy's attention to them.

Percy ignored him too.

And Cedric did a very bad thing. He stuck out his crutch just a little -- just enough. Percy tripped over it, spilling the parchment and going down on his knees. Harry was gaping at Cedric and Mr. Weasley obviously wasn't sure if he should. "Greet your father properly, Percy," Cedric said to the figure on the floor. "I know you weren't raised in a barn, even if you insist on acting like it."

Jerking himself to his feet, Percy spun on Cedric -- who even on crutches remained taller. Percy's eyes dropped to the prefect's badge on Cedric's robes, as if to check whether it was still there. "You don't give me orders, Diggory. I gave you orders."

"And enjoyed it a little too much, as I recall." Percy had been Head Boy when Cedric had first been appointed prefect.

"Well, you should probably take off that badge, now. You won't be needing it anymore."

Cedric just smiled, though he doubted it reached his eyes. "Show a little filial respect, Weasley -- greet your father."

Percy shot Mr. Weasley a poisonous glance -- and Cedric suddenly understood he'd managed _really_ to put his foot in it this time. The chill in the air would have suited December -- far, far worse than could have been explained by Percy merely adopting his usual self-important snooty attitude. But father and son did nod before Percy stomped away. When he was out of earshot, Cedric -- face flaming -- blurted, "Sorry. That was really out of line of me. I didn't, ah --"

"It's all right, Cedric," Mr. Weasely said. "Percy and I had a . . . falling out over political views."

Cedric just nodded and Mr. Weasley changed the subject, returning his attention to Harry. "I'm going to take you straight back so you can tell the others the good news. I'll drop you off on the way to that toilet in Bethnal Green." He glanced up at Cedric, half inquiringly. "Diggory, you -- ?"

"I'm headed back to my dad's office." He held out a hand to Harry. "See you first of September, eh, mate?"

Harry gripped Cedric's wrist in a Quidditch-players' handgrip. "You, too, Ced. Thanks again. This meant a lot, today."

"Right. Go on, now. I'll slow you both up."

The two headed off, Arthur clearly in a hurry and Harry trotting along at his heels. Cedric suppressed momentary resentment over their speed as he made his own way down the hall. And because he was much slower, he was only halfway up the stairs when he heard the drifting echo of a cold voice he recognized all too well, speaking viciously to Harry.

Lucius Malfoy.

His own anger flooded back, bright and hot, and he increased the speed of his climb as best he could. Malfoy was up there, and Cedric wanted to come face to face with the wizard who'd ruined his life. He wanted just one good swing at the man.

Yet Malfoy and Fudge's voices appeared to be receding now, and because Cedric was in too big of a hurry, he missed a step and came down hard on his weak leg, which gave under him, sending him crashing to his knees and then sliding down a few steps while he tried to grab for purchase on anything --

-- until he was frozen in place. Fast steps approached from behind, and a strong woman's hand appeared over his shoulder. "Careful there, Mr. Diggory. Need a hand up?" It was matter-of-fact, not pitying, something she might have offered to anybody, not just a cripple.

He took the hand and let Amelia Bones pull him back to his feet. She was stronger than she looked -- which was saying something as she looked capable of hefting a goodly sized cauldron. Back up (legs shaking a bit from how close he'd come to going all the way down the stairs), he knew he was blushing. "Thank you."

"You're welcome." She studied his face a moment. "Susan speaks highly of you."

"I think highly of her."

The corners of her mouth curled. "Maybe not quite the same." And Cedric wondered if he should interpret that the way he thought she might have meant it. Then her expression sobered. "You're certain the person you saw in that graveyard and thought was You Know Who, really was?"

"Yes, Madam Bones."

"How can you be sure? Fudge had a valid question."

"I just . . . am. At first, I thought one of his Death Eaters was him, but when I _saw_ him finally -- the real Voldemort" -- she winced -- "I knew. Have you . . . " he trailed off, searching for the right words. "Have you ever seen someone, or something, you knew -- absolutely -- was evil? Beyond-hope-of-redemption evil? He didn't even look human anymore, and I don't just mean in feature, though there was that. It was Voldemort."

She winced a bit less that time, perhaps because she was considering him with great interest. "I'm inclined to believe you, Mr. Diggory. I trust Dumbledore in the first place, but even if I didn't -- " She tilted her head and then motioned up the stairs. They were the only ones still in the dungeon. "Come on." And she accompanied him the rest of the way up, making it seem like a matter of manners instead of being sure he reached the top safely.

When they were headed down the Level 9 hallway, she said, "A word of advice, if I may, Cedric?"

"Of course."

"Be careful what you say, and to whom. I don't mean lie. I mean exercise caution. Your House will support you unquestionably. According to Susan, they think you put the sun and stars up there." He blushed a little at that -- though he was also honest enough to recognize it for true. "But there will be others at Hogwarts who aren't so sympathetic to you, Triwizard Champion or not. I won't delude you -- you made enemies today, and not just Fudge. They were inclined to ignore you before, but lines are being drawn in the sand, and you made it clear which side of those lines you stand on."

Halting at the first set of lifts, she pushed the button. "Watch your back, young man. I'd hate to see the first Head Boy from my house in fifteen years wind up on Fudge's chopping block."

He gaped at her, and she smiled back, watching him out of the corner of her eye. It was almost playful -- if anyone could ever see Amelia Bones as playful. "Oh, I know. And I know you know, too. And I suspect Hogwarts is about to learn what it means to tangle with a den of badgers. Most of them really have no idea about Hufflepuff, do they, Mr. Diggory?"

He found himself grinning -- really and truly grinning for the first time all day. "None at all."

* * *

Hermione had no nails left by the time Harry returned with Mr. Weasley to give the news that he'd been cleared. Worry was second nature to her, but she couldn't remember a morning she'd spent in such a terrible state. Well, perhaps the morning before Harry had faced the dragon, but whatever she'd said about there being no case against him here, she knew all too well that the legal system and fairness weren't necessarily synonyms. Now, relieved, she sank into a chair at the long kitchen table, only half aware of the discussion going on around her about Lucius Malfoy or of the odd little war dance being performed by Ginny and the twins.

Ron had settled in beside her, and Mrs. Weasley called Harry over to the table for lunch. "'Course," Ron was saying, "once Dumbledore turned up on your side, there was no way they were going to convict you." He was plopping mashed potatoes onto her plate, his, and Harry's, but she wasn't sure her stomach would take food just now.

"Yeah, he swung it for me," Harry was saying, then abruptly clapped his hand to his forehead.

"What's up?" she asked, worried all over again.

"Scar," he said, perhaps predictably, "But it's nothing . . . It happens all the time now . . . "

Hermione didn't like the sound of that, but before she could say anything else, Harry went on, "Cedric was there."

Hermione fumbled her fork. She hadn't meant to do it; it just happened -- and Harry was quick to notice. "Cedric?" she managed to get out. It even sounded almost natural.

"He came with Dumbledore, and Mrs. Figg. Well, actually, I think he came in with his father, but he came to the trial with Dumbledore, and spoke for me."

"Good of him," Ron was saying around a mouthful of potato. But Harry was watching Hermione, not Ron, who was still talking, "I bet Dumbledore turns up tonight to celebrate with us, you know."

"I don't think he'll be able to, Ron," Mrs. Weasley warned. "He's really very busy at the moment."

"HE GOT OFF; HE GOT OFF; HE GOT OFF -- " sang Ginny, Fred and George.

"SHUT UP!" Mrs. Weasley roared.

Harry was still watching Hermione, who was finding it difficult to eat. "He's permanently crippled," Harry said abruptly. "He's on crutches for the rest of his life. Cedric, I mean."

The table grew silent, ebullition ebbing. Faces were turned down to plates. Harry, Hermione noticed was looking around at them. "But you all knew that already, didn't you?" He rammed his fork into the lump of mashed potatoes on his plate, which belied the casual words, "It might've been nice if somebody had told me."

"You had enough to worry about, Harry dear," Mrs. Weasley said. "It was very good of Cedric to show up for you today, but then, he's a good boy."

Hermione could see the high color in Harry's cheeks that signaled the advance of an outburst of temper.

"A very good boy," George was saying as he sat down, voice somewhere between amused and a bit vicious. "Of course, with all the sawdust upstairs, he hasn't got enough brains to be anything else."

Harry slammed his fork down. "Don't talk about him like that!" He glared at George, who'd provided a clear target for his anger.

"Whoa! Just a joke, mate. He's not a bad bloke, Diggory."

"Not a joke. Ced stuck his neck out for me today in a major way. And he was crippled saving my life. I don't ever want to hear any of you say anything bad about him again. And -- Mrs. Weasley, if it's all right -- could Ced come tonight and celebrate with us? Mr. Weasley told me on the way home that Cedric knows about the Order, that his parents are in it."

Mrs. Weasley was nodding. "I see no reason why not. I'll speak with Remus about picking him up."

Hermione felt her stomach drop away and she suddenly couldn't bring herself to eat another bite. But she waited a minute or two for the conversation to veer in another direction before setting down her fork and saying, "I'm not feeling well. Too much stress, I suppose. If you'll excuse me -- " And getting up, she left the kitchen. None of the others seemed to think it odd except Harry.

Fifteen minutes later, she heard a knock on the door of the room she shared with Ginny. She'd gone straight to lie down, digging out one of her special books about living with disabilities and glancing through it although she'd already read it. Twice. At the knock, she sat up and shoved it under her pillow. "Come in."

Harry entered, shut the door, and sat down on the end of her bed. "Ron's mum'd probably kill me if she found me in the girls' room."

"Probably." But Harry had always felt more to her like a brother than anything romantic. The idea of kissing him was vaguely funny -- not repulsive, just amusing in the way of things one can't really imagine doing.

"Why didn't you tell me about Ced?" he asked.

She pulled up her knees to rest her chin on them, arms hugging them loosely. "I saw him in hospital, this summer. I went to visit my parents for a week and dropped in on him at St. Mungo's." With Harry -- unlike Ginny, Ron or the others -- she felt free to tell the whole truth. "I wanted to see how he really was, so I could warn you."

"Why didn't you then?" The anger was back in that.

"Dumbledore told me --"

"To hell with Dumbledore!"

Hermione started, as much because Harry rarely swore as at what he said. "Dumbledore told me," she repeated, "not to tell you, until the trial. He said it was fine to tell you after. I think he just didn't want you doubly upset, Harry. None of us expected Cedric to be there; I never heard that Dumbledore asked him to come, though he did ask Mrs. Figg. Cedric just did it . . . because he's Cedric." She found herself smiling softly. "If I'd known he was coming, Harry, I'd have warned you, whatever Dumbledore told me. I'm in trouble already, so I suppose a bit more of it wouldn't make any difference."

"You? In trouble?" Harry looked amused.

She blushed. "I wasn't supposed to leave this house to visit anyone, but my mother had said she missed me and, um, I needed to see Cedric."

"You _needed_ to see him?" And now, Harry was almost laughing.

"Not like that!" she snapped. "I mean I needed to see how he was, so I could tell you. I didn't really expect to keep going back."

"How many times did you go back?" Harry asked, surprised.

"Twice. Well, twice more after the first. He just seemed lonely. And he's rather funny. And clever. And such a lovely person."

"You fancy him," Harry said, face alight with something like amusement, but also a bit of surprise.

"I don't fancy him!"

He just stared at her, head cocked.

"All right, I do." And she suddenly found herself grinning as hard as she was blushing. Only Harry could make her admit to such a thing so bluntly. "But it doesn't matter. He's going out with Cho."

And Harry's face fell. "Yeah, he is, isn't he?"

"Oh, Harry -- I'm sorry." Reaching out, she squeezed his knee. "I forgot for a moment."

His laugh was bitter. "Think we could break them up? You could have Ced and I'd take Cho?"

Despite the somersault in her stomach caused by that idea, and the memory of their moment in the lift, she shook her head almost violently. "It'd be wrong, Harry. It'd just be wrong. And he wouldn't be interested in me anyway -- not Cedric Diggory and Brainy Granger."

Harry eyed her thoughtfully, as if he'd suddenly had an idea. She didn't like that look. "I don't know, Hermione," he said. "Krum looked at you twice, and Ced's at least twice as smart as Krum."

She snorted. "I'll have you know that Viktor is very intelligent." Then she reiterated, "And it'd still be wrong."

* * *

Cedric returned home at noon to find a new letter from Cho, nice and long and chatty, and for once, he sat down immediately to write back to her while he ate lunch, telling her all about Harry's trial.

The morning's adventures had put him in a splendid mood. He'd discovered he could still Apparate. He'd faced the public on crutches and got through it. And he'd helped -- however minor the assistance -- in getting Harry off the absurd charges laid against him. It had left him feeling a bit hex-proof.

So after lunch, he did the one thing he'd been unable to bring himself to do ever since coming home. He put on his Quidditch robes and fetched his broom. A Nimbus 2002, it had been a gift from his parents the year he was made prefect and Quidditch captain, and had cost what one of his mother's portraits -- months of work -- usually sold for. He was sure she'd been the one to buy it for him, though she was no fan of Quidditch and feared he'd crack his head open someday. But she understood his chief interest in the game was to _fly_. That's why he'd tried out for Seeker despite the fact he'd been far too tall for the position even then, never mind now. He'd planned to change to Keeper last year because it was what the team needed, and as captain, he had to think about that. The Tournament had put paid to Quidditch, but he'd have to make that change in the team this year.

Assuming he could still fly at all.

The day was sunny but not too warm, the terrible July heatwave having passed. Cedric could smell the hint of coming autumn in the air. There was no wind. His mother was upstairs, at work, his father out tracking down illegal crup breeders, and so there was no one to see if this turned into a disaster.

He made his way out past the barn. The crups barked at the sound of his approach, thinking someone was coming to play with them. "Not today," he told the air. A fence separated their yard from the field beyond, and he opened the gate to let himself through.

The main question was whether he could keep from falling off the broom. He might not need his legs to support his weight, but riding a broom was like riding a horse, requiring thigh strength both to stay on and to signal directional changes. Despite his size, it was what he'd been best at -- fast, hairpin turns. He was strong, and could grip the broom well. His arms were, in fact, stronger now -- but his legs were another matter.

There was also the small hurdle of actually getting _on_ it.

Calling the broom to hover low to the ground, he held himself up on one crutch and manually lifted his leg over the handle. (His leg muscles were too weak for him to raise his foot more than a few inches unassisted, which was why his feet dragged when he walked.) Still balanced on the crutch, he called the broom higher, hand extended to protect his crotch. (The last thing he needed was to have it slam into him _there_.) The broom settled obediently into his grip and he lowered his weight onto it.

So far, so good. Slow and steady wins the race.

Now-- the moment of truth. He collapsed his remaining crutch.

He held his seat for five seconds before his thighs gave out and dumped him, unceremoniously, onto the ground.

"Shit," he muttered, but got back up again. He'd had it there for a moment -- he'd had it. If he could just get his balance right, his arms might be enough to hold him.

An hour later, he was forced to admit defeat. The broom simply required a lower-body strength and control he no longer had. Sitting in the dirt of the field, panting from the continual effort, sun hot on his back and broom handle gripped in both hands, he bent his head.

He was never going to fly again.

Grounded permanently.

That was where his former teacher, Remus Lupin, found him a little while later. Seeing Lupin come through the open gate, Cedric dropped his broom and tried to struggle to his feet, feeling foolish and hoping his face showed no signs of his devastation. But Lupin just raised a hand and motioned for him to stay seated. He felt too wrung to protest, and settled back. Coming up beside him, Lupin dropped down, too, stretching out his legs and resting his weight on his hands, face turned up. His robes spread out around him on the grass. "Your mum said you were out here; I came to deliver an invitation."

Head still slightly bent, Cedric twisted his neck so he could see Lupin. "An invitation? Does Professor Dumbledore have a mission for me?" He tried to keep the hope out of his voice. Maybe, if he couldn't fly, he could still do something useful against Voldemort.

Lupin dropped his chin. "Not that kind of invitation." His eyes swept over the broom lying discarded at Cedric's side. "Harry wants you to come to his celebration dinner tonight. You've not actually been to headquarters yet, and we thought this might be a good time. I came to escort you. You still remember the admission note?"

Cedric closed his eyes and brought it sharply to mind -- the parchment Dumbledore had given to him over a month ago now when he'd been in St. Mungo's. The headmaster had written it for him, had him memorize it, then burned it. "Yes," he said now.

"Good. We've got about an hour before Molly'll have supper ready. She's making meatballs, and her meatballs aren't to be missed."

But Cedric wasn't sure he was in any sort of mood for a party. "Who will be there?"

"Whoever is off tonight and isn't already busy. Myself, Kingsley, Tonks, Molly Weasley -- Arthur has to work -- Bill Weasley, and Sirius, of course. He hasn't seen you since you were a toddler, says he won't believe you're taller than he is now until he sees it with his own eyes."

Cedric smiled, although he had no memory of his cousin. "I meant, er, what students -- besides Harry?"

If Lupin's eyes narrowed just a bit, Cedric couldn't be entirely sure. "The Weasley kids. Last I saw, Fred and George were cooking up some manner of firework show their mother doesn't know about. And Hermione Granger." He bent his head to see Cedric's face more clearly. "I think you know all of them."

"Yes."

Lupin slapped Cedric on the knee. "So, go and get yourself ready."

Cedric frowned. "I'm not really sure I should go. I mean, everyone knows Harry better than I do."

And Hermione would be there. But he didn't say that.

Frowning, Lupin said, "Harry tells me you called him your friend."

"Well, yes, but not . . . I'm not a friend like the others."

Lupin's frown deepened. "What you did today for Harry meant a great deal to him. He's like his father in that he sets great store by loyalty. Plus, you're _you_ -- the older, popular boy. He hasn't quite been boasting all afternoon, but close -- keeps calling you 'Ced' to be sure we know you're on nickname terms." Cedric blushed a little at that, and Lupin grinned briefly, then sobered. "I'm assuming you weren't lying to him when you called him a friend."

"What? No, of course not!" Now it was Cedric's turn to frown. "After everything . . . " But he trailed off. He didn't quite know how to express what felt like a blood-tie despite the brief time they'd actually spent in each other's company. "Harry _is_ a friend. I just . . . George and Fred don't exactly like me." That was putting it mildly. They thought he was some sort of nancy boy. "I barely know Ron, or Ginny." He didn't mention Granger.

Lupin did. "You know Hermione." He bent again to see Cedric's face, which Cedric hoped wasn't flaming.

"Well, yes."

Lupin just nodded. "Then come tonight. Harry'd be terribly let down, if you didn't."

And put that way, Cedric had a hard time refusing. It sounded as if a lot of people would be there, too, so Hermione didn't have to talk to him if she didn't want to. (And did he want her to? Well, yes, he did -- very much. That alarmed him.) "All right," he said. "I should go back to the house and change, then. It'll take me at least fifteen minutes just to _get_ there."

"You could Apparate," Lupin pointed out.

Cedric's eyebrows went up. "I suppose I could." Then he smiled as he pushed himself to his feet. "I spent sixteen years not being able to Apparate, it'll take a while before I remember I can now."

Without being asked, Lupin reached over to pick up Cedric's broom, then stood, too, and looked at the handle. "A Nimbus! Very nice. Good broom for a Seeker."

"Fat lot of good it does me in this state," Cedric said before he could bite his tongue.

Glance sharp, Lupin asked, "What do you mean?"

Balanced on crutches, Cedric just glared down at the grass about his feet. "I can't fly. Not anymore."

"_Cedric -- _" Lupin shook his head. "That's awful. I'm truly sorry. You're a magnificent flyer."

"_Was,_" Cedric corrected. And while half of him appreciated the words, the other half hated the pity. He ripped his Quidditch overrobe off and threw it to the ground in a fit of pique, then immediately regretted showing his temper that way. "Sorry," he said. "And thanks."

Lupin was studying his face. "Being angry is perfectly normal. You've a lot to be angry about. It's an honest emotion. Don't apologize for it."

"I didn't mean to burden you with it."

Smiling, Lupin said, "You've got to 'burden' someone. Something like that's too heavy to carry alone." Bending down, he picked up Cedric's robe, too, and folded it neatly, asking, "How are you? And I want to hear the real truth."

With anyone else, Cedric might have dodged, but there was something about how Remus Lupin asked things that told a person he cared. So Cedric said, "I have good and bad days. This morning was hard, but I felt as if I'd accomplished something. Then --" He gestured to the broom and robe in Lupin's hands, his crutch hanging loosely from his wrist. "It feels like it's never going to stop -- finding out what I can't do, I mean. I know the nerve damage isn't going away. But the rest -- I peel myself like an onion, but I'm afraid when I get to the middle, there won't be anything there." His throat closed on the last word, choking him, and he looked away to hide the sudden sting in his eyes.

He felt a hand grip his shoulder. "That's the hardest part. The things you can't do any longer, or can't try in the first place. I'd like to tell you it gets easier -- but I'd be lying."

And Cedric suddenly realized that Lupin _knew_. He wasn't just saying that, he knew. All the things he must be barred from now, as a werewolf . . . "How do you bear it?" he blurted out, then blushed. "Sorry. You don't have to --"

"I have friends, Cedric. That's how I bear it. I have friends. I had friends at Hogwarts who taught themselves to become Animagi just to keep me company. Even after all that happened later, I never forgot that devotion."

Cedric couldn't help contrasting Professor Lupin's experience with the fact he'd not had one person visit him at St. Mungo's that summer -- besides Hermione, and she hadn't been his friend before. "No one would do that for me," he said finally, the confession driven out of him by a need to tell _somebody_, confide in somebody. He felt inexpressibly alone, ironic though that seemed for the 'popular boy,' as Lupin had named him.

"You might be surprised," Lupin said now, then shoved his hands in his pockets beneath his robes. "Want an honest observation from an old teacher?"

From the phrasing, Cedric had a feeling it wasn't going to be complimentary. "Maybe. Yes."

"You push people away, Ced."

He jerked his head up, surprised -- and a bit offended.

"Oh, you're friendly to everyone. It's one of your great virtues, but past a certain point, you don't let people in. I remember how you tended to show up for class alone, and you left alone, too, unless somebody trailed you out. I saw you in the library -- alone -- as much as I saw you with the rest of your House."

"I had OWLs . . . !"

"Of course you did. And there's nothing wrong with spending time alone. But the Cedric I remember was either surrounded by a crowd, or off by himself and the proverbial door was shut. I'm not sure I could name a single person I could say was Cedric Diggory's _friend. _You have to let people past the front porch to have a friend, Ced."

Cedric didn't know how to reply. Lupin was right, but he hadn't really expected something quite so . . . blunt. He wanted to cross his arms over his chest in defense, but of course, he couldn't, and that angered him almost as much as Lupin's words. "It's hard to find somebody to talk to," he said finally. "I mean really talk to -- not just sort of bullshit to."

Lupin nodded again. "You tend to converse at a higher level than most of your classmates. You think deeper. That makes you different. It's why the Goblet chose you, I think. But being different isn't always an easy thing. You get along well with everyone, but you'll probably always have a smaller circle to choose from for a close friend. That doesn't mean they're not there to be found. It just means you have to look harder. You will need them. And I think one of them is going to be at dinner tonight."

Cedric breathed out. "Harry could be a friend -- is a friend," he agreed. "But he's a little young --"

"I'm not talking about Harry."

And Cedric felt blood scald his neck and ears. "I thought so," Lupin said softly. "A boy and girl don't spend several hours talking for three days in a row if they've nothing to talk about."

"How did you know -- ?"

"Because I spoke with your mother -- who's quite impressed by Hermione, I might add. And if there's a person at Hogwarts who can keep up with you intellectually, Cedric, it's Hermione."

"More like can I keep up with her?" The question just burst out, and he blushed again. "But I have a girlfriend."

Lupin grinned, the expression a bit sly. "Who said anything about girlfriends? I said a _friend_, Mr. Diggory. Friends _can_ be found in the opposite sex, you know. Now come on. Molly doesn't like people to be late for supper."

* * *

After lunch, Hermione hid in her room.

Of course, that wasn't what she'd admit she was doing, but it's what she was doing. Ginny, Harry and Ron had all been up to try to lure her downstairs. "You've got to come to dinner, at least!" Harry said on his third trip.

"I'll be at dinner," Hermione promised. There would be a table. And lots of people. And she could sit between Ginny and Tonks and not have to look at Cedric. (Well, not when he knew she was looking.)

Rolling his eyes behind his glasses, Harry went away again. Hermione went back to her books, although she really wasn't retaining anything she read. And when no one was there, she kept going over to the mirror to check her appearance. She'd put on a new blouse in a pink-and-brown print that fit just a bit tight, and she'd twisted her hair up to keep it from looking so bushy. There was, annoyingly, a spot on her chin, and it sent her diving for her bags to find her makeup . . . except she couldn't find it. She turned out the contents of her trunk and bag both on her bed, digging with increasing frustration. She almost never bothered with makeup. It simply wasn't worth the effort, but this was a special dinner. She should look her best for Harry.

Fortunately, Ginny picked that moment to walk in the door. "What are you looking for?" she asked.

"My makeup bag."

Ginny fetched her own and handed it over, watching while Hermione turned to the mirror and applied powder. It didn't much help the spot, which practically _glowed_. (And why was it that some people had such perfect complexions? Or that skin had to cover so much of the body for those who didn't?) Sighing in defeat, Hermione dug back into Ginny's bag. A little mascara, perhaps, to draw attention to her eyes instead of the Mount Olympus on her chin. But Ginny didn't have mascara. Why didn't Ginny have mascara? Ginny was the makeup queen when she wanted to be. "Where's your mascara?"

"What's mascara?"

Hermione sighed. "It's this . . . stuff . . . you put on your eyelashes. To make them thicker."

"Oh!" Ginny hurried over to take the makeup bag from Hermione and pick out a tiny brush. "Close your eyes." Hermione did so and felt Ginny brush the lashes. "There. It's an engorging brush. Lasts a couple of hours."

Hermione opened her eyes to see the results. Very nice -- and no lash clumping. Magic had some advantages.

"Want my lipstick?" Ginny asked, holding that out.

Hermione considered. She rarely wore lipstick. But if she were putting an engorging charm on her lashes, why not lipstick? "What color is it?" she asked.

"Oh, it'll change to match your clothes. Pink, probably, for that, or brownish -- whatever's appropriate. Won't rub off when you eat, either."

Magic definitely had advantages. Hermione took the tube from Ginny and put it on. "You look very nice," Ginny remarked.

"Thank you. It seemed proper to dress up a bit for him tonight."

Ginny's lips tipped. "For Harry -- or Cedric?"

Frowning, Hermione turned away. "Harry, of course. Don't be ridiculous."

"Well, I came to tell you that Professor Lupin and Cedric just arrived. Fortunately, they got in the door without Mrs. Black screeching her head off."

It was funny how they all still called Lupin 'professor' even though he hadn't been one for over a year. But Hermione's chief reaction to that announcement was a wild, giddy bubble rising in her chest. Ginny seemed to guess as much, even without Hermione saying a word. "Come down. You look stunning."

"I'm not trying to look stunning."

"Oh, pull the other one, Hermione! I'll make sure mum seats you next to Cedric --"

"No!" Hermione clutched at Ginny in a panic. "Please, no!"

"All right, all right." Ginny patted her hand. "You can sit beside me then. Across from Cedric."

"No! Not that, either." Hermione found herself glancing wildly around the room, as if she might spy a bolt hole. She couldn't do this. "I don't want to sit anywhere near him."

"Hermione, we want him to _see_ you."

"We? What is this, a conspiracy?"

"Of course it is. Harry's helping me." Ginny was grinning and suddenly grabbed Hermione to hug her. "Stop being silly." Then Ginny let her go and fussed with her hair a bit.

"He's got a girlfriend," Hermione pointed out, though she submitted to Ginny's ministrations. Ginny had always been able to make Hermione's hair behave. It was Ginny who'd done it up for the Yule Ball.

"Cho Chang," Ginny agreed now. "Yes. A complete bit of fluff if ever there was one. He needs a _real _girl."

"Ginny!"

"Well, she is. And he does."

Hermione thought Ginny's opinion of Cho had more to do with Harry's fascination with the other girl than anything else. "Cho's very nice, and very _bright_. And she's been loyal to Cedric, too, writing him all summer despite everything. She's not an empty-headed powderpuff."

"_She_ didn't visit him in St. Mungo's."

"She lives in _Scotland_, Ginny. That's a bit far from London."

Ginny didn't reply, just finished with Hermione's hair. "There, better. Now, come downstairs."

Feeling numb, Hermione let Ginny take her by the hand and lead her out. "Harry," Hermione said, "has a big mouth. He wasn't supposed to say anything."

"He didn't. Well, he did, sort of, by accident. I bullied the rest out of him." Ginny threw Hermione a stern glance over her shoulder that looked so much like one of her mother's that Hermione had to struggle not to laugh. "You're not exactly subtle. All those books under your bed table about living with disabilities --"

"You looked!" Hermione drew in breath sharply.

"Hermione, please. I'm not dimwitted. Muggle books? Of course I had to take a peek. And you were hiding them. Why hide them unless you were feeling self-conscious?"

Ginny might not be the top student in her year, but that wasn't from a lack of cleverness.

Then they were downstairs, through the hallway, and into the kitchen, and Cedric was standing there, talking to Sirius and Harry and Professor Lupin. Even on crutches, he was the tallest, and glanced over when she entered, gave her a smile, then returned his attention to whatever Sirius was saying.

And that was it. After all the anxious anticipation, the actual moment proved anticlimactic. There was no magical meeting of eyes, no swelling violin music, no bolt of lightning. He'd just smiled and turned back to his previous conversation. Hands shaking a bit from the adrenaline rush, she went with Ginny to help Mrs. Weasley finish supper.

What had she expected? It wasn't as if Cedric Diggory needed her attention.

Except it wasn't so simple. True to her word, Ginny made sure Hermione wasn't sitting beside Cedric, but she did place Hermione's plate across and three places down from his so that all of dinner became torture as Hermione tried to steal glances at him without him catching her. Yet he seemed to be doing the same -- she caught him three times. By pudding, she was so self-conscious she couldn't eat, while he seemed to be shoveling whatever was on his plate into his mouth mechanically. He didn't talk much, just listened. Then again, with the Weasleys, and Sirius, and Tonks, the conversation didn't need much help. Normally, she'd have leapt in, too, but her voice seemed to have disappeared and there was a steady flutter in her chest like the beating wings of a fledgling bird. If she opened her lips, she was terrified some silly giggle might erupt, and for no reason at all except that he was here.

It was a wonder the rest of the table hadn't noticed how they were acting. But they hadn't. Or if they had, they were pretending not to, but she honestly didn't think anyone had (Ginny and Harry aside). Subtlety wasn't a feature of most Weasley interaction, and Tonks, bless her, had all the finesse of a brick. After years in Azkaban, Sirius wasn't much better. Kingsley Shacklebolt and Professor Lupin were at the other end of the table.

When supper was over, Mrs. Weasley spelled plates over to the sink before Tonks could offer to help (and break half of them). Polite as always, Cedric made a point of saying, "Dinner was excellent. You're an amazing cook, Mrs. Weasley. I appreciate you -- all of you -- having me."

Mrs. Weasley blushed prettily; Hermione knew that complimenting her cooking was the quickest way to her heart. "Thank you, dear. You come back for supper any time you like."

People were getting up and the twins urged everyone into the drawing room 'for a show.' They planned to set off fireworks inside? Were they mad? Cedric, she noticed, had to wait for people to clear out on either side of him before expanding his crutches and moving the chair next to him out of the way in order to get to his feet. "I should probably be going," he said softly, and Hermione wasn't sure if she were more disappointed or more relieved to hear that.

But Harry, who'd waited for him, said, "No, no -- you can't leave yet. Fred and George have been working on this all afternoon. They'll never forgive you if you leave now."

"Actually, I doubt they'd notice. And I suspect my life and limbs might be safer."

That comment made Harry and Ginny laugh as Ron muttered, "Your life and limbs? How about the rest of us when mum realizes what they're really up to. They've been telling her it's a puppet show."

"What?" Hermione asked, bursting out in startled laughter because she just couldn't keep her nerves under control anymore.

Cedric glanced over at her, eyes warm. He was grinning, too and --

-- there it was. The same gut-drop sensation as in the lift. She'd been able to control it when she'd first arrived downstairs in the kitchen, but it had built up all through supper and now burst out again, stealing her breath and making her tummy shake. He had, she thought, the most beautiful smile on earth. And the prettiest eyes, such a dark gray they appeared almost black at a distance. She'd forgotten to breathe, and maybe he had, too, because he looked away abruptly and took a deep breath. "I don't know," he said. "I . . . maybe -- "

"You're not going anywhere," Harry interrupted firmly. "Come on, Ced."

Cedric appeared startled by that, but then -- obediently -- followed Harry, who was the man (so to speak) of the evening. Yet Hermione had eyes only for Cedric.

* * *

Cedric suffered under an agony of self-reproach. He'd never in his life wanted a girl's attention more -- or less. Why was this happening? He _had_ a girlfriend. She was lovely, and sweet, and clever, and loyal. And he'd never sought out this near-obsession he harbored now for Hermione Granger.

He felt like an absolute lout.

Yet if not for that, the evening had proved delightful. He'd forgotten how much fun it was to be part of a large family group. If Lupin had been right that Cedric had no close friends in his House, Hufflepuff acted more like a great, sprawling family -- right down to the squabbles. Never having had siblings (but desperately having wanted them), he'd basked in that, taking his role as 'elder brother' very seriously.

Here, tonight, it had been much the same -- except he wasn't the eldest, and had no expectations to fill. He got to sit in the midst of them and listen, and eat excellent food. He barely knew these people, had only come into their orbit by way of events that he could have wished had never happened. Yet he felt as if he belonged -- thoroughly adopted. Nor had anybody made much of the crutches. They hadn't ignored them, just hadn't made anything of them, and so _he'd_ been able to forget them, or forget them as much as he ever could. When he'd first arrived at the house, Lupin had shadowed him up the front steps without saying anything, opening the door for him because he'd reached it first. Then when Cedric had arrived at the long dinner table, Tonks had pulled out the chairs for him to get in -- but matter-of-factly, just as she'd proceeded to dump food on his plate once he was seated (even if she had spilled tomato sauce on his robes, apologizing profusely for it). Later, when he'd been unable to reach the butter because he couldn't stand easily, Sirius -- seated across from him -- had waved a wand to float it nearer. "Thanks," he'd said.

"No problem," Sirius had replied. "Around here, it's every man for himself -- at dinner anyway. Yell loudly if you want something and somebody _might_ hear you."

"Sirius!" Mrs. Weasley had rebuked, but Cedric had just laughed, putting butter on his bread and then sending the butter back out into the table's center with a wave of his own wand.

If Hermione hadn't been there, he'd have been content.

But she was there, and he couldn't stop himself from glancing her way every five minutes (or less). After the meal, when their eyes had met, she'd completely stolen his wits by just the glory of her laughter. He'd have run right then, but Harry hadn't let him, herding him into the drawing room on the ground floor for the festivities, whatever that might entail. His discomfort grew worse when he found himself steered to a sofa by Harry, only to have Hermione steered to the same sofa a few moments later by Ginny. He couldn't tell if that had been intentional or not -- but how could they possibly know the battle going on inside his head? She'd had no choice but to sit beside him, or appear unconscionably rude by turning away. Of course she sat, sticking (thankfully) to her side of the cushions -- even if that wasn't terribly helpful. Rather small, the sofa fit only two.

There was much milling about and settling in, but Cedric felt frozen in place, afraid to look at Hermione, afraid to speak. Nervously, he picked at the forearm cuff on one of his crutches. He could have collapsed them, but hadn't; he'd put them down like a barrier between himself and Granger.

She wasn't looking at him either, he knew from his peripheral vision. But he no longer felt unsure about whether she were interested. Her behavior all night -- not to mention that moment in the kitchen -- had been oddly reassuring. He tried not to be vain, but he wasn't quite so naive as not to recognize when a girl fancied him.

He just wasn't used to being so completely besotted in return.

And he still felt like a lout.

More to the point, this whole comedy of errors was terribly frustrating because they'd gone from having everything to say to each other to being unable to utter a word. And that annoyed him almost as much as his fascination with her upset him. Perhaps Lupin had had a point, earlier. Why couldn't he have a _friend_ who happened to be female? He got on very well with a number of girls in his House, and that wasn't romantic. Maybe Granger excited him so because he could _talk_ to her, have a real conversation, and he wasn't used to that -- with anyone, really. So perhaps it had been natural for him to assume their connection something more, but who said it had to be? She was friends with Potter, and Weasley, too. Why couldn't she be his friend? And _just _a friend?

He wanted his friend back.

And he realized quite abruptly that she had indeed -- in just three days -- become his _friend_. So maybe his best mate would turn out to be a _girl_. That was . . . okay. It was really okay.

Grinning because he felt suddenly light-hearted, he used the cover of people still settling in to lean towards her and whisper, "The lift didn't happen." Startled, she jerked her head about to look at him, her little pink mouth open. He just grinned. "Didn't happen, Granger. Right?"

But that wasn't relief in her eyes. It was hurt.

She thought he was rejecting her. How he knew that so positively, he wasn't sure, but he did. He could read it in her pinched brows and the perfect O of surprise that her mouth made.

Botched. He could have kicked himself.

"I want my friend back," he blurted, because he didn't know how else to take that hurt away. "This is all screwed up. I just want my friend back. So it didn't happen."

Her eyes lightened and her brow smoothed. "What, you wave your wand and it goes away?"

"If that'll work." He pulled his wand out and waved it between them. "Whatever it takes."

And she laughed. It was music. She laughed and the whole world went back to spinning correctly on its axis. "All right -- fine." She held out a hand to him. "The lift didn't happen."

He took her hand and shook it. It was small in his. Then they settled back to see whatever Fred and George had cooked up, and laughed together at the look of consternation on Mrs. Weasley's face when she realized the 'puppet show' was a mad unleashing of magical fireworks -- inside, no less. It was a wonder nothing more caught on fire than a corner of the curtains.

After, they sat on the sofa, each propped against an arm, discussing Harry's trial, recent articles in_ The Daily Prophet_, what the Death Eaters were up to, new import taxes on French trade goods, and whether or not Hagrid still had the blast-ended skrewts. He told her about the crup mill his father was investigating, and she told him about their adventures cleaning the Black drawing room. Occasionally, others shot them bemused glances, but they didn't take any notice. They didn't even notice when everyone else trickled out in ones and twos. They were too busy talking.

"So how is Krum?" he asked her at one point -- fishing, he had to admit.

"Viktor's fine. Although he's been busy with matches all summer. He writes when he can."

"Do you have an address where I could contact him? I'd like to thank him for, well, what he did at the End-of-Year Feast. The standing ovation. That was very kind. He didn't have to do that."

"I'll fetch it before you leave. And I think he thought he did have to do it, after attacking you in the maze. He felt terribly about that."

"Not his fault -- he was compelled. I want to tell him that, too. I don't hold him responsible. Have you been to any of his matches?"

"Apart from going home -- and to visit you -- I haven't been allowed to leave the house. It wasn't, well, safe."

"That's got to be hard," he said. "To be apart. I'm sure he wishes you could come see him play."

She glanced down and pushed stray hair behind her ear. "I think maybe you've got the wrong idea." She glanced up quickly, then back down again and wet her pink lips. "We're just friends, Cedric -- Viktor and I. We write, but that's all. He lives in Bulgaria. It's a bit far for a romance."

"Oh." And his heart soared. Which was very bad of him indeed. But being so cheered, he felt gracious. "Krum's a good chap. Karkaroff not so much maybe, but Krum is. When we met in the library, he was never rude. Sometimes I helped him find things."

She smiled. "That was decent of you."

"Host school and all." He grinned, because she'd called him decent -- even if he wasn't feeling very decent at the moment.

It was Remus Lupin, leaning over the back of the sofa between them, who brought them back to reality. "It's midnight," he said, grinning at them both. "I think it's time to take Cedric home."

"What!" Hermione sat up in surprise, glancing at her watch as Cedric looked across at the grandfather clock in a corner. It _was_ midnight, and they were the only ones still in the room, and he realized quite suddenly that he was _tired. _He'd got up before sunrise.

Yawning, he said, "I do need to get to sleep." Grabbing his crutches, he pushed himself to his feet, almost wobbling as exhaustion hit him with full force. He hoped he could still manage to Apparate. "Do we have to go all the way outside," he asked, "or can we leave from here?"

Lupin laughed at him, but kindly. "I'm not sure you could _get_ outside without falling over. What time did you get up this morning?"

"About five."

Coming around the sofa, Lupin chuckled and gripped his arm. "Let's go, nightowl."

Cedric glanced down at Hermione, who looked as sleepy as he felt. But she was smiling at him, and all was right with Cedric's world. He could even forget not being able to fly, at least for the moment. "Write to me," he said, adding, "It's not taking up my time."

She blushed, but didn't look away from his eyes. "Come back. I'm sure Mrs. Weasley will find something for you to clean."

"Who, me? I'm a lazy git, Granger. I come for food, not work."

She tossed a pillow at him and he ducked, laughing, then set his crutches and made a step and turn -- and he was in his own bedroom. Professor Lupin popped out beside him. "All right," Lupin said checking him over. "You're in one piece. I was a bit worried there, as tired as you were."

"I'm fine."

"Good." Lupin nodded at him, then was gone again with a crack.

Cedric took the few steps to his bed, where he just collapsed on the sheets, still fully clothed. He dropped his crutches on the floor, kicked off his shoes, and hauled his legs up. Rolling on his side, he buried his face in his bedspread -- laughing for absolutely no reason at all. Despite his extreme fatigue, he didn't know if he'd be able to sleep any time soon. His mind (and heart) were racing.

Naturally, he was asleep almost before he finished that thought. He dreamed of brown, bushy hair.

* * *

Notes: I should also add a reminder that sometimes I lift entire sections of dialogue straight from the book, but rarely lift the narrative that goes with it (largely because it's being seen from a different POV).


	7. Hogwart's Express

Cedric had a letter from Hermione waiting the next morning when he woke.

_Dear Cedric,_

_ I forgot to give you Viktor's address before you left last night. You'll find it included below. I hope you slept late._

_ Fondly,  
Granger_

The address was there, as promised, but he set it aside. He'd write to Krum later. Instead, he wrote back to Hermione -- though he stared at the 'fondly' for a long time first, trying to figure out exactly how to take that. Was it how she always signed off, or did it mean something? Finally shaking his head, he sat down at his desk and picked up his quill, scribbling on a scrap of parchment:

_Granger,_

_I slept till eleven. Your letter was already here. What time did you wake up? Somehow, I doubt you had much more sleep yesterday than I. Did Mrs. Weasley pry you out of bed this morning to wage war on the mad doxies?_

_ --Ced_

A reply came by late afternoon.

_Dear Cedric,_

_ No doxies today, I fear. We were cleaning out an upper room that had a rather disturbing cabinet full of skulls and shrunken heads, plus a few horns from things I'm afraid to ask about. I'd rather have the doxies, I think._

_ You could come and help, you know._

_ Fondly,  
Granger_

He wrote back after supper.

_Granger,_

_ I told you, I'm a lazy git. I show up for food, not work._

_ Don't let anything with teeth bite,  
Ced_

_ P.S. You can call me "Ced," you know._

The next morning, he had another reply.

_Dear Cedric,_

_ I am being quite careful of things with teeth._

_ And I know I can call you Ced, but don't think I shall. Not any more than you call me Hermione._

_ Sincerely,_  
_ Hermione_

Laughing and annoyed at once, he replied to that immediately.

_Dear Stubborn,_

_ Is that any better?_

_ --Ced_

When he sent his reply, his mother -- who was in the gallery where he was writing -- observed, "You're going to wear out the owl, Cedric. Why don't you just visit her again?"

But that wasn't as much fun. Letter writing permitted the intellectual side of their friendship without the agitation of inconvenient physical reactions. (And if he got a thrill every time he saw _her _handwriting on the cover of a letter instead of that of another friend, he chalked it up to delight at her wit.)

Her reply came after lunch.

_My oh-so-annoying Cedric,_

_ Are you always this maddening?_

_ How is Esiban, by the by? And what are you doing right now?_

_ Your Stubborn Hermione_

Grinning, he wrote back.

_My Stubborn Granger,_

_ Being maddening is an art form, you know. One must practice diligently, or lose one's edge._

_ Esiban is quite well. Rather fat, actually. He hunts a good deal more here. I think I may need to put him on a diet when we return to Hogwarts._

_ As for what I'm doing right now, I seem to be writing you a letter. You write to me, and I have to answer so you know you're not taking up my time. Or rather, so you know I don't mind._

_ What are you doing today? (I assume that if I say 'right now' you'll say you're answering me.)_

_ Your Annoying Ced_

The owl bit his finger when he attached the note, which somehow just made him laugh despite the fact it hurt. Then he played with Esiban and listened to the Wizarding News Network in the library while impatiently awaiting her reply. (He'd become rather addicted to the news that summer.) But he wasn't listening very attentively (his mind was on Granger), and it was only his own surname coming all unexpectedly that got his attention.

"-- that man Diggory! We've not done a thing wrong here. We breed quality crups for the most reasonable prices in southern England. The insinuation that we're somehow practicing cruelty to animals or engaging in irresponsible breeding is _quite_ insulting. As for Amos Diggory, he's supposed to carry out Ministry policy, not decide it. I'm not breaking any laws."

Dumping Esiban off his lap, Cedric sat up on the library couch. Mouth open, he just stared at the wireless as if it had suddenly transformed into a pixie. "What the bloody hell?" he muttered.

"So the reports that your crups are kept in chicken coops and are poorly fed and sickly, aren't true?"

"Those are kennels! And I've done nothing wrong! Diggory came stomping in here two days ago claiming the right to shut down my establishment and cart away my crups! But I have a license to breed from his own department, properly submitted and approved. I don't have to put up with this harassment he calls 'quality checks.' He determines what passes for 'quality,' but who made him Minister of Magic to interfere with the honest livelihood of the average witch? I hear he lives on some estate out in Cornwall --"

"Devon," Cedric corrected to no one. "It's Devon and it's just an old farmhouse." He was too stunned by the whole thing to focus on more than the details.

"-- and probably never put in an honest day's work in his life, bloody useless paper-pusher. I don't pay taxes to make jobs for men like that."

"And that," the reporter broke in, "is the assertion of Mrs. Margaret 'Peggy' Donner of Steel Cross, the Weald, cited on three counts of animal cruelty by Mr. Amos Diggory of the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures, Beast Division. It appears there is some question as to whether Mr. Diggory is operating with excessive independence, interpreting well-established guidelines to suit his own definitions. The Wizarding News Network has been informed that the Ministry will launch an investigation into Mr. Diggory's conduct. The Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures has refused to comment on the case until the inquiry's conclusion, although an anonymous source within the department says that Mr. Diggory's behavior has been increasingly erratic since his son was tragically wounded in the Triwizard Tournament this June."

Pointing his wand at the wireless, Cedric banished it to the barn, then realized what a pointless act that had been and summoned it back, turning it off with a flick before grabbing his crutches and heading for the door. "Mother!"

This investigation had nothing to do with 'excessive independence' unless that meant Cedric's refusal to bow to Minister Fudge at Harry's trial. His father had received a commendation two years ago for his handling of breeding abuses, and although Dumbledore had warned Cedric that this might happen if he stuck to his testimony, he hadn't expected it to happen so fast. Or for such a small cause.

Then again, perhaps it hadn't been so small. Cedric had stood up in front of the Wizarding High Court, which included the most influential witches and wizards in England, and told them Voldemort was back.

* * *

The Ministry investigation into the conduct of Amos Diggory did not make the front page of _The Daily Prophet_ the next morning. It didn't even make the third page, appearing instead on the fifth, and down near the bottom, as if to affirm its non-importance. Just another bit of Ministry bureaucracy.

But Hermione, who read the paper cover to cover and was, these days, rather sensitive to the name 'Diggory,' as well as to 'Potter' and 'Weasley' and 'Dumbledore,' spotted it within fifteen minutes of receiving her morning copy at breakfast. "Oh, no," she whispered, then indignation took over. "I don't believe this! How utterly ridiculous!"

"What?" Ron asked, looking up from his cereals and half peering over the edge of the paper.

She turned it so he could see, finger pointing to the offending article. "They're after Cedric."

Harry snatched the paper out of her hands and scanned the article quickly, then tossed it down on the table in disgust. None of them said any more; there wasn't much to say. They'd become used to the paper's hostility, but Hermione wondered how Cedric was taking it. Although he'd been marginalized as a Triwizard competitor by Harry's extraordinary selection as a fourth (and underage) champion, he also hadn't had to deal with Rita Skeeter's damning brand of yellow journalism. Cedric Diggory had been no one's target, until now.

Hermione left breakfast to go up to her room and write him a letter. She regretted the Wizarding world's lack of telephones. Letters weren't the same as hearing a friendly voice, and she didn't think talking to him in the fireplace -- as Sirius had done with Harry -- would be sufficient. The whole concept of disembodied, talking heads bothered her Muggle-raised brain.

_Dear Ced,_

_ I saw the article this morning in the Prophet about what happened to your father. I'm so sorry. It's completely unfair. I know I can't do anything, but wanted to say I'm thinking about you. Everyone here is. Harry sends his regards, and Ron, too._

_ With affection,  
Hermione_

In fact, Harry and Ron hadn't specified that she mention either of them, but she thought they'd both want to be included. As an afterthought, she added:

_P.S. Do you want me to come to your house?_

It was almost evening, however, before she received a reply.

_Dear Hermione,_

_ Thank you for writing -- but no, don't come out here. Things are in a bit of an uproar. Stay where you're safe. Tell me something funny, instead -- a joke, a story, I don't care. I need a laugh, other than the of the sarcastic variety._

_ --Ced_

Given the circumstances, she had a hard time thinking of anything funny, but she tried, telling him a tale of Crookshanks stalking Pigwidgeon and a shredded lampshade. She hoped it made him smile, and if she didn't see him in the wake of the news, she did see his mother, who showed up at Headquarters the very next evening. She was escorted into the kitchen -- whose door was subsequently shut -- and no ears, extendable or otherwise, proved able to penetrate the charms on it. When the meeting was over, Lucy Diggory re-emerged with the hood of her purple robe pulled up over her pale hair.

Haunting the back of the stairs, Hermione, Ron and Harry overheard Mrs. Weasley's remark as she pulled away the curtain covering the portrait of Mrs. Black. "Thank you for taking a look at it, Lucy."

Immediately the hideous howling commenced and everyone hunkered down to bear it -- except Mrs. Diggory. She stood tall, facing the portrait, and withdrew her wand. As Mrs. Black got warmed up on the subject of 'blood traitors and filth!,' Mrs. Diggory said in a commanding voice, "Silence!"

To Hermione's astonishment (and Harry and Ron's, too), the painting fell silent as if muffled. Wand still raised imperiously, Lucy went on, "You will control your outbursts, old woman, or I shall paint your mouth permanently shut."

"You can't," the painting replied -- but at half her usual decibel. "You're not my creator."

"There are ways around that, you know. Don't give me reason to experiment with them."

And the painting fell blessedly silent. Mrs. Diggory lowered her wand and Mrs. Weasley shut the curtains again with a heartfelt, "Thank you so _very_ much."

Mrs. Diggory simply nodded. "My pleasure. And I mean that quite literally -- never liked the old bat. Sorry, Sirius."

"I never liked the old bat, either."

And that won a hint of a smile from Mrs. Diggory, but her face returned almost immediately to an expression of distracted concern. At the door, Mr. Weasley stepped around his wife to take Mrs. Diggory's hand in both his. "It'll work out, Lucy."

She didn't reply to that, just turned away and slipped out into the night.

Hermione wasn't sure if she were more interested in what the meeting had been about (although surely Amos Diggory's Ministry inquiry had been part of the discussion), or in what Mrs. Diggory had done to the painting. "How did she manage that?" she whispered, mostly to herself, when the door had shut.

"Yeah," Harry echoed. "Sirius said even Dumbledore can't shut his mum up."

"Dumbledore's powerful, but he's not a Master Painter," Ron explained as they headed back towards the boy's room on the second floor. "Takes a special sort of magic to do that -- although I don't know how long it'll hold. Paintings don't have much of a memory, really."

Hermione glanced back towards the hallway. "So it's a particular gift, like Tonks' metamorphing?"

"Sort of. Plus, well, you have to be able to _draw_."

Harry grinned, and Hermione asked, "Mrs. Diggory's an artist, then?"

And Ron appeared startled, stopping dead in the hall to stare at her. "You didn't know?"

"Why would I know?" she snapped.

"Because, uh -- well . . . you and Diggory talk. But yeah, his mum's an artist, all right, best Wizarding painter Britain's seen in 500 years, or that's what I've heard people say. She went to study in Paris with Michel Peindre. Surely you've heard of _him_?"

"Yes, I've heard of him." Hermione wondered why Cedric had never said his mother painted, but didn't think this the time to quiz him about it. She'd look into it later. In the meantime, she decided to take the direct approach about the matter of Mr. Diggory and chose Arthur Weasley as the best target for her inquiries -- or at least the most soft-hearted. She approached him later that same evening while he was having a cup of tea and sorting papers at the big kitchen table. He was the only one in there at the moment. "Mr. Weasley?"

He glanced up and tried to smile, but it looked forced. "Hullo, Hermione."

Entering all the way, she took a seat across from him and folded her hands on the table surface. "Will Mr. Diggory be sacked, do you think?"

"Sacked?" He seemed a bit startled. "Is that what you kids are thinking?" Then he reached across the table to briefly cover both her hands in one of his. "He won't lose his job, Hermione. Or not immediately, and not over this. The most that'll happen is that the inquiry will go in his record, and if they decide he acted in some way contrary to Ministry policy, he won't get a raise this year. But -- unlike myself -- Amos has always had a good reputation at the Ministry. We're concerned because it's evidence of how far Fudge is willing to go to silence opposition. These charges are very trumped up -- just as with Harry's trial. Amos didn't do anything he hasn't been doing for the past ten years. The Ministry seems to have cut a deal with this woman; either that, or they've taken advantage of someone inclined to stir the cauldron in the first place. We'd like to know which of those it is, because it's indicative of Fudge's desperation level. We're also concerned because, well" -- he smiled faintly -- "Amos is a bit temperamental. We're hoping he doesn't make it worse for himself."

Hermione picked at a bit of candle wax that had dripped on the wooden tabletop. "They're doing this because of Cedric, aren't they?"

"Yes," Mr. Weasley said, "I'm afraid they probably are. Although it's not entirely Cedric. Amos hasn't made any secret of the fact he blames the Ministry for what happened in June."

"And implying that he's just a disgruntled employee makes it ever so much easier to keep people from questioning the Ministry's inquiry in the first place, doesn't it?"

Mr. Weasley appeared impressed. "Yes, it does."

"Cedric's hard to discredit, and people feel sorry for him, so they're going to get him through his father."

Mr. Weasley studied her face a moment, as if deciding how much to say. "Amos may be well-liked for the most part, but he's made some bad choices in the past -- or at least questionable ones. He was a lot younger, but these things have a way of following us." He tilted his head down and regarded her seriously. "Remember that, Hermione. Reputations aren't always repairable."

"But what -- ?"

"That's not really your business, and I've probably already said more than I should. Unlike some at the Ministry, I'm _not_ inclined to gossip about what my colleagues did in school. We all eventually grow up. Amos Diggory is a good man. And this _will_ blow over. It's just not very comfortable for Amos or the Diggorys until it does."

So she went upstairs to write Cedric another letter and tried not to worry overmuch when he didn't reply for two days. Knowing Cedric, he was eating his heart out with guilt, but the most she dared to say by post was, "Mr. Weasley assures me this will blow over."

Cedric wasn't the only one acting guilty. Harry seemed torn between relief at his reprieve and remorse for having got Cedric and his family into trouble, however inadvertently -- not to mention Cedric's injury itself. "Harry," she told him, "you had nothing to do with this. _Cedric_ chose to go to the Ministry."

"For me."

"Look -- you didn't make those dementors attack you, you didn't do magic outside school just to show off or something, and you never asked Cedric to come to your hearing. You certainly didn't call him forward to testify. Dumbledore did."

"I wonder if they've done anything to poor Mrs. Figg?"

She blew out in frustration. "Probably not. Don't change the subject. Cedric wanted to do those things, so he did them."

"For me," he repeated.

"_Not_ just for you. He wants to fight You Know Who just as badly as the rest of us. He says he doesn't think Dumbledore wanted to call him forward to testify, but he's glad it happened."

"When did he tell you that?"

"The other night. We talked a bit about your hearing. Cedric _wanted_ to be there, Harry."

Yet Harry remained sullen, and Hermione wasn't sure how much of that was about Cedric, how much about Sirius' increasing glumness as the school year approached (and Harry would be leaving), and how much about the situation in general.

The investigation into Amos Diggory's actions ended a week before the school year was to begin, and he was cleared of all charges (though apparently the woman's crup farm wasn't shut down). Hermione and Cedric still wrote, if not with their initial, ridiculous fervor. She got a letter from him every few days and answered it in approximately the same rhythm. Occasionally, she was teased -- especially by the twins, who insisted on referring to Cedric (out of Harry's hearing) as Granger's prettyboy prat -- but mostly not.

In fact, nothing of any note happened until the morning before they were to return to school, when their welcome letters and book lists finally arrived -- and prefect badges for her and Ron, but not for Harry, with much ensuing awkwardness. Hermione still blushed to herself hours later when she thought of how she'd first mistaken Harry as her new, fellow prefect -- an honest enough mistake as he'd been holding the badge at the time she'd entered the room. But then to add insult to injury, she'd expressed far too much surprise upon learning that Ron was prefect instead. Of course, Ron deserved it just as much, but by this point they were so used to Harry receiving special status that she'd made the wrong assumption and wound up hurting both friends.

Looking down at her new red-and-gold badge attached to her robes, she wondered who she'd be answering to this year as Head Girl -- and Head Boy. She knew the popular speculation that Cedric would be named Head Boy, but if Harry hadn't been made a prefect, perhaps Dumbledore had passed over Ced as well? She didn't for a minute believe Fred and George's speculation that Harry hadn't been chosen because he'd caused too much trouble, but she wasn't sure why he _hadn't _been chosen. And would those same reasons apply to Cedric?

She considered writing to him, but didn't. She'd see him the day after, and then she'd know. She had no desire to put her foot in it with him, too, and if she wrote to ask, yet he _wasn't _Head Boy, it might make him feel like an also-ran, and he'd had enough of that with the Tournament. She considered writing to tell him she'd been made prefect as a way to test the waters -- see what he replied. But that might sound like bragging, and bragging around Cedric never felt right. He was one of those rare people who didn't seem to have an arrogant bone in his body -- despite everything he was capable of doing (and doing well). It was almost unnatural. Or maybe, being in Gryffindor, she'd just grown so used to casual arrogance, she found it strange when others didn't display it, as if that concealed dishonesty, or proved a lack of ambition. Yet she didn't think Cedric dishonest, and she knew he had ambitions.

With a sigh, she returned her robes to her trunk and went down to supper, where she received a shock, and only part of it was the big banner hung above the dinner table that read **Congratulations, Ron and Hermione -- New Prefects**, or the fine meal spread out for them in celebration.

Cedric was there. He'd come with his parents, along with a number of other members of the Order. She wasn't sure how to act with him in front of his mum and dad, but grinning, he crossed to speak to her as soon as she entered. He looked a tad . . . windswept, which she found amusing. "Congratulations, Granger -- although I can't say I'm surprised."

She just stared up at him. There was no banner for him tonight -- and she couldn't ask why, fearing the reason. He seemed to guess from her conflicted expression what she wanted to know, and smiled. "Yes, I am. So you'd best get used to taking orders from me."

"Eeee!" And without even thinking, she threw her arms around his neck, bouncing up and down in delight, and almost pulling him off balance on the crutches.

"Hey! You're strangling me!"

Everyone had turned to look and she let go in a sudden fit of self-consciousness, addressing the room at large, "Cedric's Head Boy!"

"We know," Professor Lupin said, smiling.

"Where's your banner?" she asked, turning back to Cedric.

"Don't need a banner, and don't _want_ a banner," he said, and she recalled how too much attention had embarrassed him during the Tournament. He took the opportunity now to sit down at the table and she pulled chairs out of his way. He patted the seat beside his. "Sit," he said.

"Giving orders already, Diggory?" But she took the seat.

"Practice." He started to reach for a bread roll but Mrs. Weasley smacked his hand.

"Manners, Cedric! Wait for everyone to arrive."

"Sorry." But he didn't look it. "Watch this," he whispered to her, and vanished a pair of small rolls into his hand beneath the table. One he passed to her. She wanted to scold him but couldn't bring herself to. He looked entirely too impish and pleased with himself as he shoved the whole roll in his mouth when Mrs. Weasley wasn't looking. She returned him hers and he didn't protest, just ate that, too.

She glanced around; people were still milling. Ron was being harassed by the twins and Harry was talking to Remus Lupin and Sirius; Cedric's parents had moved to the other end of the table, to speak with Shacklbolt and Tonks. "How is your dad?" she whispered. "I saw the charges were dismissed."

"He's still pissed off, but getting over it."

"How are you?"

"Pissed off but getting over it."

Harry had sat down across from Cedric at the table. "I guess congratulations go to you, too," he said, but Hermione could see the shadow in his eyes. First she and Ron, and now Cedric. It must hurt.

"Sympathies might be more in order," Cedric was saying with a touch of amusement.

"Yeah, well -- but it's an honor."

"It's also a pain in the neck," Cedric replied with equanimity, "especially in my NEWT year," and Hermione wanted to hug him all over again for being gentle with Harry. "Being prefect's no fun in your OWL year, either," he added, offhand. "I'm not sure I'd do it again, if offered the option." And that was, Hermione thought, a good deal more gracious than she or Ron had managed. Then again, Cedric was older.

"Authority figures," Moody was saying to Ron, "always attract trouble, but I suppose Dumbledore thinks you can withstand most major jinxes or he wouldn't have appointed you."

Ron looked suddenly concerned, and beside her, Cedric, who'd just taken a sip of water, spat it out through his nose. Hermione stared at him as he tried to wipe his plate clean. "He may be paranoid, but there's a certain truth to that," he said softly, still grinning. "Watch your back, Granger, Weasley."

Ron sat down beside Harry. "Gee, thanks. That makes me feel loads better."

Bill and Mr. Weasley arrived then, and Bill made a point of first congratulating Ron, then coming around the table to hug Hermione and slap Cedric on the back. "Consultation time after supper, mate. I know some things you want to know, right?"

"Right." Cedric said, accepting the hand Bill offered before Bill passed on to kiss his mother. Hermione remembered that Bill had been Head Boy in his day, as had Percy, but Hermione thought Cedric's style would be closer to Bill's.

Mr. Weasley had raised his goblet and said, "I think a toast is in order. To Ron and Hermione, the new Gryffindor prefects, and to Cedric, Hogwart's new Head Boy."

The rest of the table drank to and applauded them, and Hermione couldn't decide whether to grin or blush -- so she did both at once, as did Ron, and even Cedric.

The rest of the crowd now bustled around the table, filling plates. There were too many people for everyone to be properly seated, but of course Cedric couldn't eat and stand, so he remained sitting, and she remained at his side so he wouldn't be alone. Harry and Ron kept their seats, too, and Sirius joined Harry on his other side, Remus Lupin sitting down across from Sirius and beside Cedric to complete the friendly circle enclosing him. It was all very casual, but their consideration warmed Hermione's heart. Tonks -- sporting vivid, red hair tonight -- scooped more food onto her plate than anyone that small should be able to consume, and said, "I was never a prefect myself. My Head of House said I lacked certain necessary qualities."

"Like what?" Ginny asked.

"Like the ability to behave myself," Tonks replied, and most of those standing nearby laughed, although Hermione wasn't sure if she ought to. Wasn't Tonks an Auror, responsible for wizard law enforcement? To cover her confusion, Hermione gulped her butterbeer (unlike the adults -- or Cedric and the twins, for that matter -- she didn't get wine), then proceeded to choke on it.

Ginny bent down to slap her back and ask Sirius, "What about you?"

That question earned a bark of laughter from Sirius, seated beside Harry. "No one would have made me a prefect, I spent too much time in detention with James."

"Sirius was a bit notorious," Lucy Diggory agreed from the other end of the table as she picked through the chicken with neat, quick movements.

"Oh, you don't know the half of it, cousin. You were long gone by the time I hit my stride." His use of 'cousin' took Hermione so much by surprise, she almost missed the rest of what he said, "Lupin was the good boy, he got the badge."

"I think Dumbledore might have hoped that I would be able to exercise some control over my best friends," Lupin replied. "I need scarcely say that I failed dismally."

Again, there was laughter, and even Harry looked more cheerful all of a sudden. Supper conversation turned to other things -- brooms, in their vicinity, as Ron was eulogizing the new Cleansweep that he'd received for making prefect. Hermione ignored that in favor of pondering the fact Cedric's mother was related to Sirius, but Sirius had said most of the old Wizarding families were interrelated because there were so few of them. Sirius was distantly related to Harry, too, and the Weasleys, for that matter.

Cedric, she noticed, wasn't paying any attention to the broom conversation, either, despite a few attempts to involve him. He answered politely and returned to his plate -- which was quite full. Yet as a Seeker and Quidditch captain, he should have been right in the middle of that topic. Leaning towards him, she said, "You all right?"

"Fine." But he clearly wasn't.

"You're related to Sirius?" she asked, to give him something else to talk about.

"Yes. It's a bit distant."

"Third or fourth cousin, I think," Sirius added.

"Something like that." Then Cedric added, much as Sirius had before, "All these old families are related, Hermione." And she was struck by the fact he hadn't called her Granger. "It's a bit unhealthy, really, and a wonder more of us aren't plain barmy."

"Speak for yourself," Sirius said, and made a disturbingly mad face, which caused Cedric, Harry, and Hermione all to laugh.

"The Diggorys aren't as bad, though," Cedric added. "We're from Cornwall, originally."

"And we all know the Cornish don't think they belong to England."

"We're Celts, not Anglo-Saxons, thank you."

"You look mighty tall and blond for a Celt, Ced."

"So that's why the name?" Hermione asked suddenly, "'Cedric,' I mean. I'd wondered." As far as Hermione knew, he was the only 'Cedric' at Hogwarts.

"What? My name doesn't have anything to do with being Cornish."

"Lucy read _Ivanhoe_ one time too many," Sirius put in, face alight with mischief.

"_Ivanhoe_?"

"'Cedric' is a character in the novel," the living Cedric explained. "Ivanhoe's father. Unfortunately, he wasn't entirely a good fellow, although he wasn't a bad sort, either. I asked my mother about that once, and she said she just liked the name."

"Oh." Hermione took a bite of baked potato to conceal her laughter.

"How did you get the name 'Hermione'?"

"My mother loves Greek mythology. Hermione was the daughter of Menelaus and Helen -- a bit of a wimp, actually. I'd have preferred it had she named me after Penelope or somebody clever but she chose Hermione because her name's Helen and she thought it amusing."

"So we're both named for imaginary people of questionable merit," he said, which made her smile. And with him beside her, sometimes brushing her elbow with his, this dinner seemed much better than the last time he'd been here. She wore a big smile and laughed easily, and there was a kind of sparkle to the whole evening. The people seated around Cedric came and went. Sirius and Lupin moved on eventually, to be replaced by Tonks and Ginny. Then Harry left to talk with Moody, and Bill took his place. He and Cedric conferred at length over Head Boy duties. But Hermione didn't miss the fact that Cedric was never abandoned. Once or twice, he glanced over at her and just smiled, and she would smile back. He was her anchor in the crowded kitchen, and she his.

Suddenly someone was gripping her shoulder to tug her out of her chair. It was Tonks. "I'll be back in a moment," she told Cedric, who just nodded up at her.

Tonks steered her into the basement hall. "So -- you're seeing Cedric Diggory?" she asked in obvious delight.

Hermione just blinked. "What? Oh, no! He's just a friend." And she was suddenly grinning again. "A really good friend." Maybe even a best friend. It felt strange to think so. Harry and Ron had always been her best friends, and she knew she was lucky to have such loyal ones, but they had each other first at the core of things. She'd always stood a bit outside that tie and hadn't realized until just that moment how very much she'd wanted somebody she could call _her_ best friend.

Tonks tipped her head to the side. "The two of you've looked mighty cozy all evening."

Giggling a little from sheer joy, she gripped Tonk's forearm. "We just think a lot alike. It's quite . . . nice, really, to have an alter-ego." And saying that, she understood it for the description she'd been seeking. She'd found her other self.

Laughing, Tonks punched her lightly on the upper arm. "That's how many _male_ Triwizard Champions you've had orbiting you like moons?"

Hermione flushed scarlet. "They're all friends. Just friends."

"Right," Tonks said, dark eyes sly. "I'll buy that for Harry. Cedric and Viktor Krum? Try again." And she sauntered off.

Hermione returned to Cedric. But he was out of his chair now, up on crutches with his mother helping him into his cloak. "You're leaving?" she asked, disappointed.

"Have to," he said. "It's getting late, and tomorrow's the _big day_." Despite his words, he seemed a bit sad about something. "I'll see you on the train, Granger. Remember -- come to the prefects' compartment up front first. There's a meeting."

"Right. I'll see you then." And acting spontaneously, she hugged him in parting, just as she might have done with Harry or Ron.

He seemed a bit startled, and couldn't hug her back, being on the crutches, but pressed his chin to the top of her head in a close approximation before she let him go. "Tomorrow." And he followed his parents from the kitchen, people calling good-byes after them. Lucy Diggory turned to look back at Hermione before exiting, nodding once, her long, cat-eyes amused. Cedric, she realized, had his mother's eyes, if steel gray to her pale blue.

It wasn't until he was gone that Hermione realized tomorrow wouldn't be an easy day for him, and maybe he hadn't been sad as much as nervous. People here at headquarters might be used to him now, but no one else from Hogwarts had seen him on the crutches. She doubted he was looking forward to that.

* * *

The morning he returned to Hogwarts, Cedric opted for the wheelchair. There were several reasons, but the most fundamental came down to simple vanity. He looked somewhat less awkward and idiotic.

The disadvantages didn't occur to him until he and his parents actually arrived at the station. Being in a wheelchair left him looking into people's chests or backs, and after spending his most recent years looking over most people's heads, that was disconcerting to say the least. He also had several people bump into him accidentally, as if he weren't there. There were handicapped entrances to navigate, and the whole problem of getting onto the Hogwart's platform without being seen. It was one thing to lean against the pillar and just . . . slip through it. It was quite another to zoom through in a wheelchair because people _noticed_, all the while attempting not to stare. His mother finally had to resort to a Confundus charm on everyone in the vicinity.

Then he was through the barrier. It was always a bit dimmer on the other side without the Muggle lights, and the scent of coal smoke stung his nostrils, the blast of the train horn loud in his ears. There was a great deal of bustle as other students called out greetings, and a few cried to be leaving their homes for months. Cedric halted where he came out, frozen with an anxious anticipation. A moment later, his parents emerged, his father dragging a trolley with his trunk and Esiban in his cage. His mother handed over his school robes, which he'd decided to put on even before the train, just so he wouldn't have to look awkward doing so later. She helped him to stand while he got into them, his emotional as much as physical support. The new Head Boy badge felt heavy on the black fabric. Unlike his prefect's badge, it had the Hogwart's crest, not Hufflepuff, and his name beneath the letters H.B.: **Diggory. **(Every Head Boy and Girl got to keep their badge after graduation.) He belonged, now, to the school, not just his House.

His mother checked him over as he sat back down in the chair (his father holding it steady to be sure it didn't roll out from under him, leaving him on his arse). With an absent brush of his fringe back, she nodded. "You're ready."

"Don't feel ready," he muttered.

She didn't reply, just strode out from behind the brick pillar into the crowd, her Muggle wool cloak billowing behind her like that of a queen, her long, blonde hair braided and wrapped about her head like a crown. Perforce, he had to follow, his father behind him with the trolley.

Conversations halted as he passed, the silence spreading like a sickness. Heads turned, whispers started. He glanced around, half-hoping to see Granger, Potter and their crowd, but didn't.

He wished his mother hadn't made this into a procession. But he trusted her; she understood image better than most, and this morning, on the way, she'd said to him, "Let them all see you at the outset. Don't hide. You're Hogwart's Head Boy -- you're going to be seen, Cedric. So let them look their fill. They'll talk, and it'll be past. Then you can get on with the business of living."

Her point might have been sound, but it was hard to bear, here, now, with a couple of hundred eyes on him from train windows, or from students and parents still saying goodbye on the platform.

Then the unexpected happened.

Cheering began. He'd just passed three train-compartment windows all flung open with students hanging out. They wore the yellow-and-black ties of his House and shouted, "Dig-go-ry!" and "Whoo!" and "Cedric!"

He broke into a smile and, turning in his chair, waved.

A couple of them piled off the train, and there were others coming towards him from where they must have been waiting, halfway down the platform. At the center were his denmates, Ed, Peter and Scott. He'd never really thought of them as close, but just then, they felt like it as they drew up beside him, grinning widely. He gripped their hands and found himself suddenly surrounded by badgers, protected from the curious stares of others. "Cedric, mate!" "How are you!" Then a gasp, and, "Oh my -- the badge!" "Merlin's beard, the badge! Look at the badge!" "_He's Head Boy! _Our Ced's Head Boy!" This last was shouted back to the compartments full of Hufflepuffs on the train and a wild shout went up, then even louder cheering. The small crowd around him pounded him on the back.

And it was okay. No one commented about the chair, except to compliment the badger spell-painted on the back. They were far more interested in his reflected glory (such as it was). "Did you bring the cup?" Peter asked him.

"What cup?"

"Don't be thick -- the Triwizard Cup!"

"No, I didn't bring it."

"Why not?"

"Because it's big and it glows in the dark, all right? I don't need a night light."

"You're odd, Diggory."

But it was said with a fond familiarity. Peter was always telling him he was odd -- had been since their very first night in their first year. Yet Peter was also, of his denmates, the first to throw Cedric into the middle of things, whether to nominate him as Quidditch captain or Charms Club president or Triwizard Champ. "I'm not going to win," he always said, "but you will." Peter and Ed had been the ones to haul Cedric into the hall to put his name in the Goblet of Fire, last October. Scott might have been with them, had he not been in hospital as a result of having tried to put his _own_ name in earlier, despite not being of age. Cedric, Ed, and Peter had all given Scott a very hard time about that later.

They weren't firm friends, but they'd been through six years together. That counted for something. And just now, they were the ones who formed a phalanx around him as they all moved towards the train, the others trailing behind along with his parents. Anybody who wanted to get to Cedric would have to go through them first.

Cedric was abruptly reminded of what Remus Lupin had said to him about friends a few weeks back, and realized that he did, in fact, have them if he wanted to let them past the porch. Peter, Ed and Scott had clearly been waiting for him to arrive, and had enlisted helpers to be sure he was spared the prurient curiosity of the student body. They hadn't had to do that. And if they hadn't visited him at St. Mungo's, they'd certainly written, and at least Peter had asked if he wanted company in Devonshire. Cedric -- always conscious of putting others out -- had declined, as Peter lived up near Liverpool.

He wanted to thank them, but didn't know how. Their friendship in the den had never been about discussion of deep matters. Yet perhaps he'd been wrong to assume it less real for that.

When they reached the steps to the front compartment of the train, he had to leave the chair for his crutches. His parents where still there, but staying back now. His mother smiled faintly, his father broadly. He was back in the hands of his House, and he'd be taken care of. His father passed Ed his trunk then hugged Cedric, and his mother gave Esiban to Peter before kissing his cheek. "Be good, write," she whispered. "I love you. And so do they." Then they were gone. Before getting on the train, Cedric collapsed his wheelchair -- to murmurs of 'wicked' from the others -- and Ernie MacMillan was there on the stairs in front of him, offering a hand up. "I'm a prefect, Ced! I guess I got your old badge!"

"Congratulations," Cedric said, accepting Ernie's hand because it was offered without pity. Getting up the four steps into the train was more difficult than it had a right to be, but the stairs were exceptionally steep. None of them rushed him, or complained.

"I'll take your stuff," Peter said once they were inside. "Join us later?"

"Right," Cedric replied, and it was only then that he saw the dark-haired girl hovering behind Peter.

Cho.

He hadn't even noticed that she'd not been among the group waiting outside the train. Smiling as she slipped past Peter, she came to wrap arms around his waist, burying her face in his chest. "I missed you," she whispered in her soft, Scottish burr.

"Missed you too," he replied, but couldn't hug her back and the words were reflexive.

He wasn't feeling anything. No thrill, no heart-stop at seeing her, not even the blood-hot rise of lust below the belt. There was a certain warmth there, certainly, but no different than what he felt for any of his friends, and perhaps less than he'd experienced when he'd first seen Peter, Ed and Scott coming to surround him.

That wasn't good.

Not good at all.

And the fact his eyes had been subtly scanning the crowd since he'd arrived, looking for brown, bushy hair, only made it worse.

She let him go, staring up into his face. He smiled down. "Are you all right?" she asked. "Do you need any help getting to the prefect's cabin? I heard the news." She hugged him again, spontaneously. "Head Boy!"

"I can manage, I think," he told her, half-laughing. "I'll see you after, all right?"

"I'll walk with you," she said. "Just, you know, in case."

"Cho -- really. I'm fine." And he turned away from her, making his way up the aisle towards the front carriage and the prefects' cabin. He didn't realize until he'd got there that she was still behind him. She pulled open the door; it started him a bit. "Cho!" he said, mildly annoyed. "I'm not helpless."

"I know," she said, blushing, then darted back down the aisle before she (or he) could say more.

Sighing, he entered the cabin where Professor Flitwick was already talking to Violet Sykes, great-great granddaughter of Jocunda Sykes, who'd flown the Atlantic on a broom just to prove it could be done. "Mr. Diggory," Flitwick piped, "come in, come in. You and Violet will be in charge this year." Cedric smiled at Violet, who just nodded back. She was a peculiar girl, a bit like her ancestor in that she did things just because they'd not been done yet, and Cedric was unsure if he found that intriguing or off-putting. But unlike her ancestor, she had no interest in flying and had stubbornly stayed off the Ravenclaw Quidditch team. She was also one of the few girls in the school who could almost look him in the eye without standing on tiptoe. "I've asked the prefects to come back in twenty minutes," Flitwick was saying. "We got off to such a late start this year, no one's had any chance to talk to either of you beyond sending your letters. I'm not sure you even knew who the other was."

"I didn't," Violet said, glancing at Cedric. "But I can't say I'm surprised. It would have been Diggory or Davies. Since it was me, I didn't think it'd be Davies."

Cedric wasn't sure how to respond to that, wondered if she'd rather have had her Housemate serve with her. But she was right to assume Davies wouldn't be chosen if she were; Head Boy and Girl were only once in a blue moon from the same House.

"All right," Flitwick said, motioning for Cedric and Violet to have a seat. "Miss Sykes, Mr. Diggory, let's go over the basics . . . " Cedric reached into the breast pocket of his robe and pulled out the short list he'd made last night (after talking to Bill) of things he wanted to ask -- and to ask permission for.

* * *

The missing Sturgis Podmore caused such a delay in leaving Grimmauld Place that Hermione worried they'd miss the train altogether. By the time she and Ron arrived with Mr. Weasley to join Harry, Mrs. Weasley, Tonks and 'Snuffles' already there, virtually no students still stood on the platform. Certainly no Cedric. No longer able to leave anything to the last minute, he'd probably been on the train for a while. She let her eyes scan the students hanging out of windows, talking to parents and siblings below, or yelling to each other, but didn't spot him. She didn't want to admit that she'd hoped he might be waiting for her. Perhaps he was already up front in the prefects' compartment.

She accepted the goodbyes of the adults with a distracted air, and was a little surprised when Lupin pressed a package into her hand. "Give this to Cedric, would you?"

Curious but obedient, she nodded and tucked the flat package under her arm as Snuffles-Sirius rose up on his great hind legs to half-embrace Harry. Not very doglike -- which Mrs. Weasley hissed at him. "For heaven's sake, act more like a dog, Sirius!"

Then she, Ron, Ginny, Harry and the twins hurried up the steps onto the train, pushing through to one of the open windows to wave. "See you!" they called out. Sirius was running along the platform, chasing the train as it chugged away from the station. It made Harry laugh -- and a lot of other students, too. Certainly not inconspicuous of him.

"He shouldn't have come with us," Hermione muttered, concerned.

"Oh lighten up," Ron told her. "He hasn't seen daylight for months, poor bloke."

Fred clapped his hands together and grinned at them all. "Can't stand around chatting all day, we've got business to discuss with Lee. See you later." And the twins were gone down the corridor.

"Shall we go find a compartment, then?" Harry asked, turning to her and Ron.

Hermione glanced at Ron. "Er," Ron said.

"We're -- well -- Ron and I are supposed to go into the prefect carriage, remember?" Hermione said. And she felt terrible for the look of disappointment on Harry's face.

"Oh," Harry was saying. "Right. Fine."

"I don't think we have to stay there all journey," she told him. "We just get instructions from Ced and whoever the Head Girl is, then patrol the corridor from time to time. That's what Cedric said last night."

"Yeah," Harry was saying. "Yeah, I just forgot. Well, I -- I might see you later, then."

"Yeah, definitely," Ron assured him. "It's a pain having to go down there, I'd rather -- but we have to -- I mean, I'm not enjoying it, I'm not Percy!"

Hermione looked down in case Harry glanced her way, as she couldn't claim the same. Her heart beat faster at the thought of seeing Cedric again.

"I know you're not," Harry said now as Ron turned away, dragging his trunk behind. Hermione followed, Crookshanks under an arm. "Tell Ced I said 'hullo'!" Harry called after them.

Hermione glanced back, smiling. "I will."

As she and Ron trudged up the hallway, they passed various compartments full of students, all busily engaged in catching up after summer holiday. But as she went by one, she caught sight of Cho Chang bent over, sobbing into her hands while surrounded by a gaggle of her girlfriends. Shocked, Hermione stopped. Had something happened to Cedric that she didn't know about?

Or had Cedric broken up with Cho, perhaps? That traitorous thought came hard on the heels of the first, and without thinking, she raised her hand to knock on the glass of the closed door. "Ron, you go on," she said when he glanced back at her quizzically. "I'll be there in a moment."

Marietta Edgecombe rose to pull the door a little open. "What is it, Hermione?"

"I just -- is Cho all right?"

Marietta hesitated, but from behind her, Cho said, "You can tell her."

"You remember how Cedric was wounded in the Third Task?" Marietta said. "Well, the curse they used on him turned out to be irreversible. He's permanently crippled. Cho's upset, as you can imagine."

Hermione swallowed the impulse to snap, "I know all that!" After all, why should Marietta assume Hermione would know Cedric's medical condition?

And it struck her that, as far as most of Hogwarts was concerned, she and Cedric were strangers. She had no idea what to say now that didn't sound either presumptive or pretentious. "I'm sorry. It must be very hard on Cho." She remembered how she'd cried all the way back to her own house on the Tube after seeing Cedric in St. Mungo's for the first time. Cho must feel much the same, even if she'd already known he was crippled. "But Ced's a strong person. He'll get through this."

And all four of the faces in the compartment focused now on her, even Cho, who looked up from reddened eyes above salt-stained cheeks. For a moment, Hermione had no idea what she'd said to earn such reproachful looks until Cho asked, "'_Ced_'?"

Hermione wished she could sink through the train floorboards. Of all the times to resort to the nickname he continually invited her to use, but she resisted . . . "Cedric," she corrected, feeling foolish. "Well, I'd best be going. I have to reach the prefect's carriage --"

And she turned quickly, hurrying away up the aisle.

Face and ears still hot, she finally reached the big prefects' compartment in the first carriage. Shoving open the door, she pushed her way in, only to halt Professor Flitwick's welcome speech.

"Nice of you to join us, Granger." It was Cedric, seated on the other side of the carriage, surrounded by a halo of Hufflepuff prefects. He was grinning -- not in a cruel way, she didn't think -- but others in the compartment, especially the Slytherins, snickered. She did a double-take upon seeing Draco Malfoy as a prefect. Cedric shot the Slytherins a frown, but why would they assume he'd only been teasing her? He was Cedric Diggory, perfect prefect, Quidditch captain, Triwizard Champion, and now Head Boy. She was just Brainy Granger with the ugly cat and frizzy hair.

Not looking at him, she settled down next to Ron, who'd saved her a seat. "Prat," Ron muttered. "Should've figured he was only friends with the likes of us till school started."

Hermione wanted to defend Cedric -- he wasn't two-faced -- but nothing was ever that simple and she could only shrug a shoulder helplessly as Flitwick returned to his welcome speech. She kept her eyes mostly lowered, but once when she did look up, she caught Cedric staring at her -- apparently waiting for her to glance his way because his eyebrow went up and he cocked his head at her in a wordless question. She tried to smile back but her face felt frozen; she looked down again instead. They were back at school, and there was no room for a Gryffindor bookworm in the personal court of Hogwart's golden boy.

* * *

**Notes:** Yes, yes, giggle if you must, but allow me my little X-Men reference. Cedric's roommate Scott is none other than the "Mr. Summers" from Hufflepuff who Dumbledore says (in Goblet of Fire) tried to fool the age line. I just . . . couldn't resist. And if you'd like to imagine that Mr. Scott Summers of Hufflepuff looks like a young James Marsden, feel free. ; Despite escorting Fleur Delacour to the Yule Ball, Roger Davies of Ravenclaw appears to have been only two years older than Harry, as he was still Quidditch captain in Harry's 5th year. My theories about Heads and prefects in this and the next chapters are based on what little we know and some logical speculation.


	8. Head Boy

**Warning: **This chapter contains bluntly adult material and earns this story its M rating. The last half of the last scene is not suitable for underage readers.

* * *

Cedric fumed -- at himself for teasing Granger without thinking first, at the rest of them for assuming his joke was a rebuke, and even at Granger for acting like a mouse all of a sudden instead of retorting in kind. Now, she was huddled on the far side of the compartment next to a glowering Weasley, her brown hair half obscuring her face. Where had his plucky Gryffindor gone?

It didn't help that he was already shirty over the fact Draco Malfoy was a prefect. Cedric had been hard pressed to bite his tongue and stay seated earlier when Malfoy had come strutting into the carriage with all the insouciance of a Quidditch star. How could Dumbledore have made _Malfoy_ a prefect -- especially after he'd made Cedric Head Boy? Surely Dumbledore, of all people, understood why Cedric might object to working with the little snot?

Thus preoccupied, it startled him when Flitwick hopped down off the seat he'd been standing on for height, gesturing to Cedric and Violet. "Now I'll turn over the meeting to your Head Boy and Girl. As I said, I wouldn't normally even be here but for the late start in getting out your letters. Cedric, Violet?"

Cedric glanced at Violet. "You want to go first?"

She shrugged and stood. "I haven't a lot to say. I'm Violet Sykes, I'm in Ravenclaw, and I recognize most of you. Cedric and I are your liaisons with the staff. We're also here if you have special problems with a student. Your usual duties are evening rounds and being sure people are doing their homework. You're expected to keep peace in your common rooms, change the password every week and make sure lights are out when they're supposed to be -- and check that no girls are in the boys rooms with the door shut, or boys in the girls rooms at all."

"Isn't that a double standard?" one of the Ravenclaw prefects asked, a kid named Berrisford.

"Didn't make the rules, sorry," Violet replied, untroubled. "There are also some occasional duties that may come up. On the train, for instance, you'll be patrolling the aisles. Ravenclaws on the first hour, Slytherins at half past, Gryffindors on the next hour, and Hufflepuffs at half past. Rinse and repeat. When we reach Hogsmeade, prefects are to keep an eye on students as they get off, to make sure no one gets hurt -- especially the younger kids. You're also to make sure all first years get to Hagrid and the boats. Then you're free to join up with everyone at the carriages."

"We won't get any good seats," Pansy Parkinson complained.

"Have someone save you one," Violet replied with the same easy phlegmatism, and Cedric thought he understood why Dumbledore had chosen her. She didn't get rattled, and was probably less likely than he to worry about difficult people. "Your most important regular duty is evening rounds. The first two nights after this one, all new prefects will shadow previous prefects; after that, the four of you divide up portions of the castle however you like and check for students from your Houses. All younger students are to be in common rooms by nine, fourth years and up by ten, though sixth and seventh may stay in the library till midnight with a teacher's permission; you're not responsible for them. And please get to _us_ with your reports no later than ten-thirty. Cedric and I would like to go to bed, too -- or to the library. Ravenclaws and Slytherins will report to me; Hufflepuffs and Gryffindors will report to Cedric."

Watching the four Gryffindor prefects, Cedric took note of Hermione's start. "Cedric?" Violet said, glancing back down at where he was seated. "Your turn."

Unwilling to stand propped on crutches, he shifted a little in his seat. "I'm Cedric Diggory. I suppose most of you know me."

That brought general laughter. "_Everybody_ knows you, Ced," Hannah Abbot told him, shoving at his shoulder with good humor. "Just get on with it."

He blushed. "Violet went over the usual duties. We have a couple more this year." There were groans at that. "Not many," he hastened to add. "And actually, they're rather old ones that have fallen out of use. We're bringing them back. The first we're resurrecting is new-student orientation."

The mutters got louder. "Orientation? Don't we do that in House?"

"You do. But I -- we -- want an additional orientation session for the first years as a group. Tonight after the start-of-term feast, instead of leading your first years back to your common rooms, you'll take them to Professor Flitwick's classroom." Cedric nodded to the professor. "He's agreed to let us use it. It won't take long, but Violet and I want to introduce ourselves -- and introduce the rest of you so all the first years know you, even prefects not from their houses.

"That brings me to the second new thing. We expect all of you to assist any first year who gets lost this first week -- _not_ just first years from your Houses. Usually, every first year is warned not to trust anybody in another House, even a prefect. That is going to _stop_." He paused to look around the room, catch every eye, even the sullen Slytherins. "If I hear that any prefect has misdirected a first year just to take the mickey out of him, you'll be answering to _me _personally."

"And that should scare us?" Marius Montague muttered. Montague was Slytherin's Quidditch captain, and he and Cedric cheerfully despised each other.

"Considering the number of hexes I had to learn for the Tournament -- including a few Krum taught me from Durmstrang -- perhaps it should." He and Montague locked eyes until the other boy looked down first. "So -- this first week, if any first year asks your help, you help them. And yes, I know it might make us late to class, but I've asked permission for a fifteen-minute grace period for prefects. Don't take advantage of it, but you've got it if you need it."

Like they wouldn't take advantage of it, but he'd address that later. Pausing again, he studied the faces for reactions. Most appeared more curious than mutinous. He hadn't really asked them for much beyond putting paid to the popular pastime of baiting first years.

"Last, regarding the Hogsmeade weekends, I want you to stay visible and keep an eye on the students in your House. No slinking off to hide in the park under the willow for a snog" -- that got a few laughs -- "or going up to the shrieking shack for kicks, or anywhere else that's out of the way. And I want you to keep students from your Houses from doing the same."

"Why?" This came from Ernie MacMillan, who sounded more baffled than irritated. "It's not like anybody's going to want us --"

"Because it's dangerous," Cedric cut him off. "Isolated students are exactly what Voldemort and the Death Eaters would like to find." There were shocked gasps all around the compartment at Cedric's casual use of the name, and even Violet winced. "Hogsmeade isn't Hogwarts. You're outside school protection there. That's my rule, and I'm going to enforce it. As prefects, you don't go wandering off -- and you don't let your students wander off, either."

His eyes came to rest on Draco Malfoy, who smiled faintly. Cedric waited for Malfoy to ridicule the caution, but the younger boy just kept smiling; he knew better than to implicate himself, unfortunately. "All right," Cedric said. "That's it. We don't have anything else. Do any of you have questions?"

Montague's hand went up and he spoke even before Cedric could recognize him. "_The Prophet _says all this talk of You Know Who being back is hogwash."

"I know what _The Daily Prophet_ says, and I know what I saw. I'll trust my own eyes, thank you."

Murmurs at that. Cedric remembered what Madam Bones had warned him, but he also wasn't about to back down from the likes of Montague.

"How long will this new orientation session take tonight?" Padma Patil asked, diplomatically changing the subject.

"Twenty minutes maybe. Not long. Then you can take the first years to your common rooms as usual."

"Violet said when we're supposed to report by, but not _where_," Ron Weasley pointed out, still eying Cedric with veiled hostility.

"Cedric and I each have an office on the first floor," Violet told him. "We'll show everyone tonight after the session."

"It's not much of an office," Cedric added. "More like a glorified broom cupboard."

That got a few giggles, but, "So you can't walk anymore?" cut across them and froze everyone. Cedric could feel Hannah Abbot's grip tighten on his shoulder, as if she thought she might have to physically restrain him, and Hermione's head went up, mouth tight and brown eyes wide with anger. Even Flitwick's mouth hung open at the rudeness.

Cedric met the eyes of the asker. Draco Malfoy. "I can walk fine with crutches," he said coldly, then added, "I appreciate your _concern_."

Malfoy still smiled. "What about fly? Still going to captain Hufflepuff's Quidditch team, Diggory?"

The blood left Cedric's face but before he could say a word, Granger had leapt to her feet to shout, "That's _enough_, Malfoy! How dare you speak to him, after what your father did --"

Malfoy surged up too, fists balled. "How dare _you_ speak of my _father_, you filthy Mudblood --"

"_Silence_!" Cedric roared.

And they went quiet, which surprised him a bit. "Sit down," he said more calmly. Violet and most of the prefects were watching him with some alarm, except those from his House. He doubted any of the rest had ever heard him yell like that off the Quidditch pitch, but he had to tackle this head-on and do it now. (Flitwick, he noted, was watching with both interest and, perhaps, some approval.) Granger had sat down, head lowered again as if ashamed, but Malfoy paused long enough to show it was against his will, then he sat down, too.

"Fighting among the prefects sets a bad example," Cedric went on. "And if I hear any of you use the term 'mudblood' again, I'll give you detention -- where you can read about some magical traditions that don't even have the concept of 'pureblood' and 'part blood' because they never _opted out_ from the larger society in the first place."

"There he goes again," Ernie said, but with exaggerated humor to break the tension. "Nobody get him started on that topic, please. We'll be here till we reach Hogsmeade."

"Shut up, MacMillan," Cedric replied, but with amusement and a bit of relief as he glanced over his shoulder. Then he reached for his crutches where they'd been resting beside him, and stood. "We're finished here. You're free to go. We'll see you later tonight, after the feast."

The others rose and milled around, gathering their things before heading for the door. "Granger," Cedric called before she could duck out. "Stay a moment."

Both Weasley and Granger glanced back at him, and so did a few others, including those from his own House, and Malfoy. But Hermione reseated herself, cat in her arms, and they both waited for the others to clear out, even Flitwick, who gave them a curious glance before shutting the door behind him. As soon as he was gone, Cedric said, "Look, I apologize for what I said when you came in--" even as she burst out, "I'm terribly sorry for being late, and then jumping up like that --"

Halting mid-sentence, he laughed but she just stared at him. "What?" he asked.

"Nothing." She dropped her eyes again.

"What's wrong with you, Granger? You're acting really strange today. Normally, you'd have told me off at least twice by now."

Her dark eyes flashed up, caught somewhere between hurt and anger. "Your friends -- they're going to ask you why you asked me to stay."

"Why would they care?" He was baffled. "They'll probably be curious, but so?"

"I mean, it's _me_."

Frowning, he cocked his head. "You know, I am obviously failing to grasp the salient point here. Mind clarifying a bit?"

"I'm not exactly _popular_," she spat out, head turned sideways and still not looking at him. Her arms were gripping her ginger cat so tightly it mewed in protest.

He just blinked. Was that what this was about? He should have guessed, and he clumped across the carriage on the crutches, plopping down next to her with a sigh. "Well, if you don't still want to be friends with me . . . "

"What? Of course I do!"

"Then why do you think I wouldn't?" he asked, dipping his head and turning it so he could see into her face where it was lowered towards her lap. "Granger? I thought you knew me better than that?"

"You're telling me I'm acting like a ninny."

"Maybe a bit." But he smiled as he said it, and she raised her face finally to meet his eyes. Hers were dark and hot and full of hope, and stopped his breath in his chest.

He'd felt nothing for Cho just before, or nothing compared to this -- tenderness, excitement, and yes, even a touch of lust, or at least desire. She stared back as if she felt the same things.

Now _he_ dropped _his_ eyes. "Did you mean it?" she asked him suddenly. "What you said about, uh, mudbloods and purebloods, earlier?"

"I don't want to hear that term from you either -- especially not from you. And yes, I did. This whole 'pureblood pride' is absurd. It's something we made up -- not something _real_. What's a 'pureblood' anyway? How far back do you have to go before no one can say who came from where? It's not even wise, all this inbreeding." He glanced up at her, then down again, and frowned. "Do you know how many siblings I have?"

"None, I thought."

"That's right. None. But my mother was pregnant four times. I'm the only one who survived. Number three pregnancy, and she spent the last three months of that on her back. Pregnancy number four almost killed her. My father wouldn't let her try again. I should have had three siblings, Granger, but I don't. And that" -- he looked up again -- "is what you get with pureblood inbreeding."

"Your mother's a pureblood?"

"Yes. My father, thankfully, _isn't. _And I do mean the 'thankfully.'"

"The Weasleys -- "

"The Weasleys are unusual. And I hope every one of them marries somebody who's not pureblood, or they're going to stop being unusual in another generation or two. Think about the purebloods you know. How many have more than one child? How many have _none_? And how many have produced Squibs?"

"Squibs?"

"Haven't you noticed that Squibs are twice as likely to show up in a _pureblood_ family? Yes, really. Look at Filch. His blood's purer than mine. Look at Harry, a half-blood, but he's a stronger wizard than me. Look at _you_." He smiled at her. "I doubt Draco Malfoy can do half what you can do." She blushed at that, and it thrilled him. "Blood isn't everything. In fact, it's not much at all. And like I said, in some cultures and magical traditions, that concept doesn't even exist."

She was smiling at him. "You make it all sound very logical, not like apologetics."

"It's not apologetics. It's common sense."

"Thank you." And it sounded almost unbearably sincere. She started to rise, then said, "Wait, I've got something for you." And she pulled a brown-wrapped package out of her satchel. "Professor -- well, Remus Lupin asked me to give you this."

He took it, frowning. "What is it?"

"How should I know, dope? I didn't open it."

And that sounded more like his Granger; he resisted grinning. "He didn't tell you?"

"No."

Cedric peeled off the paper. Hermione didn't offer to leave, he noticed. It seemed she was as guilty as he of the sin of curiosity. He let her stay. Inside the package was a simple book with blank pages. Bemused, he thumbed through it until reaching a piece of parchment stuck in the middle.

_Dear Cedric,_

_ This is a journal. I thought it might come in handy as a place to put what you don't want to say to others, or feel you can't say -- or to put anything you like, really. Use it when the words have no where else to go. When I first came to Hogwarts, Dumbledore gave me just such a book, and I now have a small collection of them, years later._

_ As for any fear that others might read it, this book will open only in your hands. Anyone else would find it quite impossible to crack. (If I may brag a bit, my Sealing Spells are excellent.) So you needn't fear that your private thoughts will be discovered by anybody._

_ Sincerely,  
__ Remus Lupin_

Cedric smiled at the letter, and then smiled wider when he realized Hermione was trying desperately_ not_ to lean over and read it, too. He handed it to her and she took it to scan the contents quickly, then handed it back. "That was sweet of him."

"He's a good bloke. I wish he hadn't had to leave Hogwarts. Best Dark Arts teacher we've had the whole time I've been here."

"The governors wouldn't let --"

"I know. They're idiots. I never felt unsafe with him."

Hermione had no chance to reply because the door opened and Cho stood there, looking from him to Hermione. "Cedric?" she asked, her face a puzzle.

If he'd had two good legs, he'd have leapt to his feet in mortified guilt, but he couldn't do that anymore, which was probably a good thing. Hermione had done so instead. He just smiled at Cho. "Thought I'd got lost?"

Her expression cleared a bit at his nonchalant reply, and she smiled, although it was half-hearted. "They said you were down here, talking to Hermione."

He held up the journal. "She brought me something from Professor Lupin -- you remember him?"

"Yes, of course." Then she turned her smile on Hermione, but Cedric thought it looked a little false.

"I'll see you later, Cedric," Hermione said as she dragged her trunk towards the door, the ginger tabby clamped under her free arm --

He blinked at it, really seeing it for the first time. "Hey, Granger, you know your cat's half kneazle?"

Hermione looked back, then down at the cat. "He is?"

"I'd say somewhere between a quarter and half." The cat in her arms had twisted to lock lambent gold eyes on Cedric. "Oh, yes, you are," he told it, almost laughing. "And don't go running away from your mistress just because you've been found out, little furball."

"Crookshanks wouldn't run from me," Hermione replied, indignant. Then she tilted her head. "Do I have to register him, then?"

"Only if he's half or more. Where did you get him?" Cedric was acutely aware of Cho watching this exchange.

"The Magical Menagerie in Diagon Ally."

"Then he's probably less than half. I doubt they're selling illegal half-kneazles. They don't want my dad to shut them down."

Cho broke in, "Cedric's father is --"

"-- in charge of the magical pet registry, yes, I know," Hermione replied, just a bit tartly.

And that certainly ratcheted up the tension in the carriage. Her face flushed. "I'll talk to you later."

"Later," he replied.

As soon as the door was shut Cho turned on him. "What on earth was that about?"

"I told you, she brought me something from --"

"I don't think you knew she had something from Professor Lupin when you asked her to stay after the meeting! Plus earlier, she called you 'Ced'! What's going on here?"

That was hard to answer as he wasn't allowed to tell Cho anything about the Order of the Phoenix.

"She's a friend of Harry's -- "

"I know that! Don't act -- "

"I'm _not,_" he snapped. "She's a friend of Harry's. She came to see me in hospital for Harry, since he couldn't come." He wasn't sure that was true but suspected it might have been, at least initially, and at the moment, it sounded good. "Why are you jealous all of a sudden?"

When on the defense, attack**:** Cedric did it almost without thinking, and Cho's expression became a mass of contradiction -- resentment, guilt, irritation, uncertainty. He couldn't help but wonder if she'd felt his indifference earlier when she'd hugged him. Now, she made a helpless gesture with one long hand. "I would have come to see you, too, if -- "

"Stop," he said, reaching out towards her and pulling her to him, catching her legs loosely between his knees. He looked up at her. "Stop. I know why you didn't come." He twined fingers through hers, other arm around her waist, holding her to him and looking up at her, chin resting on her flat tummy.

She was blushing now, but smiling, and she ran a hand through his hair. "I'm being silly, aren't I?"

"Yes," he told her, then let her go, collecting his crutches in order to stand. "I should go and join Peter, Ed and Scott."

"I'll come."

"All right." This time, he let her open the door for him, perhaps because he felt a bit _dirty_.

Cho wasn't being silly for her doubts, or not entirely. And what was he going to do about this situation? It wasn't right, and he knew it, but she'd been so loyal all summer when any other girl might have found an excuse to break up with him. How could he, in good conscience, break up with her now on the very first night they were back? He had to give her a chance; it was only fair. A week, maybe two. If he hadn't remembered why he was seeing her by then, it would be time to put an end to it.

* * *

By the time Hermione found the train compartment taken by Harry and Ginny (along with Neville and, of all people, Luna Lovegood), Ron had already filled in the others on the meeting and who were the new prefects, and had just finished detailing Cedric's bombshell concerning Hogsmeade weekends while Harry was flipping through a magazine and the others listened.

"I bet that went over like a lead balloon," Harry observed, closing the magazine and handing it back to Luna.

"Why would somebody put lead in a balloon?" Luna asked -- which stopped conversation for a moment.

"Uh, just a figure of speech," Harry explained.

"Yeah, and it did, too, just a bit," Ron agreed. "Put Montague in his place, though. Worth the price of admission just for that."

"Cedric doesn't like Montague," Hermione said as she seated herself beside Ron and deposited Crookshanks next to her on the maroon cushion. "He cheats at Quidditch."

"Hermione, everybody cheats at Quidditch. Montague's just ham-fisted about it."

"Cedric doesn't cheat." Well, not unless cheating were more fair, as in the Tournament. Cedric, she'd discovered, was more concerned with 'fair' than with 'rules.' It was something she'd begun to learn herself. The law wasn't always about justice.

"What'd he want with you, anyway?" Ron asked, deflecting her defense.

"Just to say he was sorry for that crack when I came in. He didn't mean anybody to take it seriously."

"Oh," Ron replied, perhaps a bit mollified. "Didn't sound like it, at the time."

"What'd he say?" Ginny asked.

"Just teased me for being late. It was a bit dry. Everybody else thought he was irritated with me." She didn't add that she hadn't been entirely sure herself, at first.

"Cedric is like that," Luna said from behind a copy of _The ... Quibbler_? Upside down? Hermione frowned.

"You know Cedric?"

"Luna lives near us and the Diggorys," Ron replied. "Well, sort of near."

"Cedric is a bit odd," Luna added, "but nice." She didn't elaborate and Hermione exchanged a glance with Ginny, but refrained from comment on_ Luna Lovegood_ calling anybody 'odd,' especially Cedric Diggory. (Although Hermione also had to admit Luna was right; Cedric marched to the beat of his own drummer at times, which suggested she did know him better than many at Hogwarts.)

Further discussion was terminated, however, by the opening of the compartment door to reveal Draco Malfoy flanked by Crabbe and Goyle. "What?" Harry demanded even before Draco could speak.

"Manners, Potter, or I'll have to give you a detention. You see, I, unlike you, have been made a prefect, which means that I, unlike you, have the power to hand out punishments."

"Yeah, but you, unlike me, are a git, so get out and leave us alone."

Hermione sputtered at that along with everyone else. Harry's wit was getting sharper.

Malfoy couldn't leave well enough alone. "Tell me, how does it feel being second-best to Weasley, Potter?"

"Shut up," Hermione told him.

"I seem to have touched a nerve. Well, just you watch yourself, Potter, because I'll be _dogging_ your footsteps in case you step out of line."

Furious now, Hermione stood. "Get out!"

Hand to his chest in mock alarm, Malfoy drew back. "My. First you defend Diggory even if he obviously can't stand you, and now Potter. Granger the guard dog. But we all knew you were a bitch anyway, didn't we?" And laughing, he slammed the door in her face.

She had to keep her back to the others for a moment because sudden tears stung her eyes. The compartment was silent behind her until Harry put a hand on her shoulder. "He's a prat. Ignore him."

"I know," she said, but still had to wipe her right eye before sitting down. Luna was reading, apparently oblivious. Neville was nervously playing with Trevor the toad, Ron avoided her eyes, and Ginny just looked furious.

"What's this about defending Cedric?" Harry asked.

"Malfoy had the gall to ask him -- in front of everyone -- if he couldn't walk at all now. Then he asked him if he was still going to captain Quidditch for Hufflepuff. You should have seen his face."

"White as a sheet," Ron agreed. "Looked close to going spare."

Harry shook his head and opened a chocolate frog package. "Malfoy's a bastard. He knows Ced can't stay Seeker."

"Why not?" Hermione asked. "He told me he thought he might still be able to fly."

"Maybe he can fly, but not like you have to for Seeker. You rely on your legs too much. I doubt he could play any position on the team now." Crumpling up the frog package after handing the wizard card inside to Ron, he threw it into a corner. "Bloody hell, I didn't even think of that earlier. He can't walk. He can't play Quidditch . . . "

"That's why he didn't want to talk about brooms last night at supper," Ron added, as if the reason had just dawned on him.

"Yeah. I thought we were boring him."

Both Harry and Ron, as well as Ginny, looked so glum that Hermione -- who knew little about flying -- feared they were probably right. "Well, he can still be captain, can't he?" she asked. All three of them, and Neville, too, looked at her as if she were out of her mind. "Football coaches don't play _on_ the team, after all. Why couldn't he . . . coach?"

Harry and Ron exchanged a glance, as if that hadn't even occurred to them. "Not sure there's any rule at Hogwarts _against_ it," Ron said, offhand. "Just hasn't been done. Wonder if he's thought of it?"

"Dunno. But it might be a bit . . . bitter, just coaching."

"You talk to him, mate," Ron said. "He might listen to you."

"I'll check with Madam Hooch tonight, just to be sure it's legal," Harry agreed. "Then I'll talk to him."

Hermione gave a small nod to herself. Harry was a good bully when he wanted to be.

* * *

"Cedric, where's Hagrid?" It was Granger, who'd seemingly materialized at his side out of the milling mass of students spilling onto the Hogsmeade platform. At Flitwick's suggestion, he'd gone back up to the prefect's compartment near journey's end, so he could be first off instead of last, as he needed to be in charge. He'd opted for crutches, too, in order to see and be seen.

Glancing down at her, he shrugged. "No idea. Grubbly-Plank told me she's taking the first years."

"I hope he's all right," Hermione said, a worried frown cutting her pretty brows.

"Probably off on an assignment." Cedric should be watching the students, but found it hard to watch anyone but Granger.

She looked up at him. "An assignment? For . . . you know?"

He grinned. "Subtlety isn't your strong suit, is it, Granger? And yes. For 'you know.'"

She humphed at him and stalked off, leaving him laughing. Peter came up beside him. "We got your trunk and the cage, but you get the raccoon, mate." He handed over Esiban, who immediately climbed up to perch on Cedric's head and shoulders. Peter laughed. "You always look ridiculous like that."

"I look like Davy Crockett," Cedric said, his eye on the milling students and his prefects.

"Davy Who?" Peter asked.

"This American frontier bloke. Wore a cap made from raccoon fur -- tail still attached. I didn't know about him, either, till Justin told me. He read it in some Muggle book. I should look it up sometime." Or he'd ask Hermione.

Peter nodded in the direction Granger had just departed. "Tetchy little bird. Potter's friend, isn't she?"

"She is. And being tetchy is part of her charm."

Peter raised an eyebrow. "Better not let Cho hear you say that. She was glued to you all the ride up."

Cedric didn't comment. She _had_ been glued to him from the time he'd left the prefects' compartment until he'd gone back to supervise their arrival. Now, she was off to save him a spot in a carriage.

"So," Peter said, conversationally. "She let you in her knickers yet?"

Turning his head, Cedric gaped. "None of your bloody business!"

"Which means 'yes.'"

"Which means none of your bloody business," Cedric corrected. Although Peter was at least close to right. "I'm a gentleman. I don't kiss and tell."

"You're an effing prude is what you are, Diggory," Peter replied, then slapped him on the shoulder. "See you in a bit."

"Right."

Most of the older students were gone, off to the carriages, and Grubbly-Plank seemed to have most of the first years . . . except for one, perhaps. An absurdly tiny girl with black ringlet curls was glancing between the children still on the platform and the ones hiking up the path to the roadway. "Hey," he called. "First year?" She nodded, and he tilted his head towards Grubbly-Plank. "You're over there."

"But the others --"

"First years get to approach the castle over the Lake. Trust me -- the view's worth it." He grinned, and she seemed reassured.

"Thanks," she called, and hurried over to join her fellows.

Violet, the only other older student still on the platform, was headed his way from where she'd stationed herself further down. "Hope they don't leave without us," she called as she approached.

"Be just our luck." Yet he suddenly realized he couldn't hurry, and they just might leave without them. "You go on," he said. "I'll slow you down."

She gave him an offended look. "I'm not in that big a rush, Cedric. Come on." And turning, she started off up the lane leading from the railway station to where the carriages waited on the road above. It was dark now, the moon shining, and Cedric could hear night noises in the pines rising around them. "You know," she said conversationally as she paced beside him, "with that animal on your head, you look like you've got some strange _growth_."

He laughed, but couldn't laugh long. It was uphill, and he was trying to go as quickly as he could; it ran him out of breath. Esiban had leapt down to hurry along in front of them with that odd, waggling raccoon scuttle. Although still several hundred feet away, they could see everyone was already loaded and the lead carriage had begun to move. And good heavens, _what_ was harnessed to it? Harnessed to all the carriages? They looked like some perverted cross between a horse and a dragon, black, scaly, emaciated, and winged -- and hadn't his father told him about some creature like this? But he couldn't for the life of him remember what it was, or why they were suddenly pulling the carriages where they never had before. He stopped dead for just a moment, his mouth hanging open. But before he could say anything to Violet, she sprinted off, her dark robes flying. "I'll stop them! We're not leaving you out here." He heard her calling, "Stop! Stop the carriages! Not everyone's here!"

And now Cedric felt horrible, and self-conscious, as students opened carriage windows to look out, curious as to the delay. But there were other voices calling now, too, "Wait! Cedric's not here!" At least one of those voices was Granger's; he'd recognize it anywhere. Another was Zacharias Smith, who had a loud mouth. The carriages had, indeed, paused, the first four strung out a bit in line.

It took him another few minutes to reach them, and by that point, he was so humiliated he could barely look up. Thankfully, he wasn't far from where he needed to be. Cho had a door thrown open and called to him, and he joined her in the concealing dark of the carriage's interior, panting from the effort, his legs aching, and Esiban following him in. He pulled free his flask of Abdoleo and drank some, but could really use a drink of _water_, too. "I feel like an idiot," he muttered, putting the flask back.

She moved over beside him. "Don't." She laid her head on his chest, hugging him. "No one blames you."

That wasn't why he felt like an idiot, and he was quite sure Malfoy, Montague and the rest of that group had been laughing their heads off as he'd struggled up the slope from the station. It was only then that he realized he and Cho had the carriage to themselves, except for the raccoon. "We're it?" he asked. There were normally at least four people per carriage. "Isn't this hogging?"

"You're Head Boy; you deserve your own carriage."

"Oh, please."

She laughed and admitted, "All right, I pulled a few strings." He felt more than saw her shift, raising her head so that her lips whispered against the line of his jaw, "Haven't seen you all summer." One of her hands rested on his knee, and he wasn't sure if her breath were tickling him or turning him on.

Twisting his head, he let her kiss him as her fingers crawled up from his knee to make small circles on the inside of his right thigh, tracing fire. Then she smiled against his mouth and pulled away. "You're sweaty." Reaching up, she loosened his tie, undid the top button of his shirt and opened his robes, her hands stroking his chest over the fabric of his button-down.

"It's not that long a trip to the castle," he warned, laughing a little. "Don't undress me, right?" But he was opening her robes, too, hands sliding inside to pull her to him so he could kiss her again. "What are those things pulling the carriages?" he asked against her mouth. "That's new." But the question was idle as her kisses were quickly burying his interest in the creatures.

"What things?"

"The black horse things."

"Horse things?" She pulled back to look at him. "What are you talking about?"

"The horse . . . things, with the wings, pulling the carriages. You know? You can't have not noticed them, Cho, however much you were keeping a lookout for me."

"Cedric -- there's nothing pulling the carriages."

"What?"

"Nothing. Same as always -- nothing. It's just locomotor or something."

He blinked. Was he going mad? She was looking at him as if she feared he might be. "I saw animals," he insisted. "Like horses. They were harnessed to the carriages. Black, scaly, all the bones showing, winged. You didn't see them?"

"No." Reaching out, she laid the back of her hand on his forehead to see if he had a temperature.

Worried now, he ran fingers through his hair, then leaned over to open one of the windows, intending to look out and see if he really had hallucinated it all, but she tugged him back. "Forget it, Ced. I don't want to talk about horses, imaginary or otherwise." And her mouth was back on his, then she shifted her weight a little until she'd straddled his lap, her school skirt hiked up, her crotch pressed to his, rocking against him . . . and that shut down his brain quite thoroughly.

He brought his hands up and around to cup her breasts beneath crisp white cotton, his thumbs finding the bulge of erect nipples. Gasping, she pulled her mouth away and arched against him, and he dropped his forehead to her shoulder, still stroking her breasts while she rocked on him. He should probably worry about a damp spot on his crotch but didn't have enough coherence. He just wanted her to keep doing that. Moving one hand down, he slid it under her skirt and inside her knickers. Did this qualify as getting in them? Literally, maybe, although it wasn't quite what Peter had meant. They hadn't gone _that_ far. She arched against him once more, keening. She was soaking wet on his fingers, her skin down there hot and slick, her head thrown back to expose her pretty throat. Leaning in, he latched onto it with his mouth, sucking hard and she hissed, rubbing faster against his hand. He twisted the fingers so that two slid inside her. It was tight, and she gasped. He immediately withdrew. "Sorry. That hurt?"

Lip bit, she nodded. And that answered one of his questions about what she'd done (or not done) _before_ him. Given how aggressive she was, he hadn't been sure, but he liked it that when he kissed her, she didn't make him do all the work. And he never felt as if he were imposing his nasty little desires on her.

In any case, what he'd just done must have interrupted her rhythm because she was climbing off his lap, leaving him with a very wet hand. "Hey," he said, "Come back up here. I won't do it again. I didn't mean to hurt you."

"I know," she said, "But I had something else in mind, actually. Move beast." And he heard Esiban's nails clicking on the wood as Cho shoved him elsewhere, but he couldn't see her outline.

Then he realized he couldn't see her because she was kneeling on the floor between his legs and -- oh, Merlin's beard. She had her fingers on the front of his trousers, gripping his erection through the cloth. How long until they reached the castle? He hadn't brought anything to clean them up, and the whole carriage stank of musty sex and sweat. "Cho," he said, but it came out breathless. She was unbuttoning the trousers' top. He fumbled for his wand, caught in his robe, and pulled it out, trying to Conjure a tissue, but didn't have wit enough left to make the charm work. "Bugger," he muttered.

"What are you doing?" she asked, sounding amused as she worked his zipper down.

"No tissues."

"Here." She pulled one out of a pocket and handed it to him.

Wiping his hand, he laughed. She'd clearly thought this out, at least as far back as the train, and he knew why she'd wanted a carriage just for them. Some serious snogging was the least of it.

Then she had him free of his underpants, and that wasn't her hand on him. It was wet and engulfing and he felt something hot slide around him from base to cock tip. She had him in her _mouth_ -- and he almost came right there, just at the thought of it. But he was also -- and honestly -- a bit distressed. What was wrong with him? How many boys dreamed of getting a blowjob from their girlfriends? Yet he felt exposed and vulnerable, and it was one thing if they fooled around using hands, even as far as they'd gone, but this was . . . quite a bit more. He half lay against the carriage seat back, helpless and at her mercy.

He didn't want to do this. He didn't want _her_ to do this.

He wasn't thinking of her face when he shut his eyes and it wasn't her heavy, sleek hair that he wanted under his palms and against his thighs. And that was wrong. He'd been wrong to let her start this at all, given his conflicting feelings. It was dishonest. Yet he'd only wanted to know if he could still remember what he'd felt for her last spring. The answer was, obviously, _no_. And her inexperience didn't help; those were _teeth_ being dragged up the underside of his cock. "Ah!"

If he'd been on the verge of exploding ten seconds ago, now he was suddenly on the verge of deflating, and he found himself pulling her head away. "Don't," he said softly. "You don't have to do that."

"Who said I 'had' to. Maybe I want to?"

"No," he replied. "This carriage is going to stop in a minute and I'm too self-conscious. Just come up here and let's put ourselves back together. I don't think it'd look good for the Head Boy to get caught like this with his girlfriend before we even get to the Welcome Feast."

She got off her knees back onto the seat and he could see her in the shadows wiping her mouth surreptitiously and spitting softly into a tissue. She wasn't looking at him at all as she straightened her skirt, underwear and bra, and did up her robes. He tucked himself back inside his pants and zipped them up. The cloth felt a bit wet from her saliva, and he was glad it was dark out, and the robes would cover him there. He adjusted his tie and ran hands through his hair, then reached out to smooth hers where it had slipped free of a slide. She jerked her head away. "What?" he asked.

"You think I'm a slut, don't you?"

"No!" And he really didn't. "I just -- I'd rather it happened when we're not in a hurry. And I'd have the opportunity to reciprocate."

And that must have been all right because she turned abruptly and buried her face in his shoulder. She was shaking and he just held her, stroking her hair. He should probably say something like, 'I love you.' But he didn't love her, and he couldn't lie, even as he also knew that after this, there was no way in hell he could break up with her. Not any time soon, anyway -- he couldn't do that to her. He pressed his forehead to her crown, eyes squeezed shut in frustration even as their carriage trundled to a stop.

* * *

**Notes: **Yes, football is soccer, of course. My impression from the book is that thestrals are so rare, even the son of someone who works with magical creatures might not know what he's seeing. It seemed the Wizarding born students didn't know them by sight (those who could see them), only by reputation once Hagrid said what they were. Like Harry, Cedric saw a man killed during the graveyard battle.

**REVIEWS ARE LOVE ... more, they tell me if anybody's reading this here. If not, there's not a lot of reason to continue posting it. It's a long story and involves a lot of re-formatting for fanfiction-net. If nobody's reading, I'll just leave it on the sites where it's currently archived.**


	9. Hat Songs & Madam Toad

Hermione, with Harry, Ron and Neville, found seats halfway down the Gryffindor table. She was torn between scanning the Head Table for evidence of Hagrid and keeping an eye on the entrance for a glimpse of Cedric. She got the latter if not the former.

He came in after most of the others, on the crutches, flanked by some boys she didn't know, Cho Chang, and the new Head Girl from Ravenclaw, Violet Sykes. For just a moment, he and Violet stood side by side, like a prince and princess, then parted with a word to each other, heading for their respective tables. Cho followed Violet and didn't (Hermione noticed) kiss Cedric goodbye, even on the cheek.

The tables had gone somewhat quiet at his entrance and students openly stared. She watched him try to ignore it as he clunked along on the crutches behind several other Hufflepuffs. It hurt to see, and she glanced down at her plate, wishing other students would grant him the courtesy of disinterest.

But then, as he was sitting down, the entire Hufflepuff table began to applaud him. Jerking her head up and around, she gaped. His House had seen what was happening, and they were letting him (and the rest of the school) know what _they_ thought of him, at least. He was grinning and blushing a little, and it brought tears of relief to her eyes. Beside her, Harry abruptly stood, clapping proudly so everyone could see. Half the Gryffindor table and much of Ravenclaw followed suit (if not standing). Only the Slytherins stayed mostly silent, though a few did clap politely. Hermione glanced up at the Head Table, noting that the teachers had joined in the applause, Professor Sprout most enthusiastically, her plump face beaming as she pounded her hands together. Professor Dumbledore was smiling benignly and wearing an expression that was almost . . . well, Hermione wasn't sure one could ever call Dumbledore _smug,_ but he looked close.

Two faces at the Head Table, however, didn't look happy. One (perhaps predictably) was Professor Snape, who clapped, but with a sour smile. The other was a short woman seated beside Dumbledore. She wore an almost terrifyingly frilly cardigan and pink Alice band that didn't seem to match the rest of her. Her square and doughy face looked anything but feminine. She smiled and clapped, too, but neither seemed sincere, and her eyes, focused on Cedric among the Hufflepuffs, were not friendly. "Who's _that_?" Hermione asked, pointing as subtly as she could . . . but the surprise in her voice carried over the dying applause as students turned back to their conversations, waiting for the feast to begin.

Harry, who'd sat back down, turned to look, and then both his eyebrows went up even as a voice from behind them called softly, "Harry!"

Harry turned, as did Hermione. It was Cedric -- who was also looking up at the Head Table. He motioned to Harry, who scrambled off the bench to go talk to him. The two conferred a moment, their faces serious, then Harry came back. Softly, he said to both her and Ron. "It's that Umbridge woman. She was at my hearing, works for Fudge."

"Nice cardigan," Ron quipped but Hermione ignored him.

"She works for Fudge? What on earth's she doing here, then?"

"Dunno," Harry replied as Hermione's eyes scanned the table once more. Then she twisted in her seat to glance back at Cedric -- who was looking right at her. She raised an eyebrow, wondering if he was thinking what she was thinking. Almost as if he could read her mind, his lips thinned in dissatisfaction then he mouthed, 'See me later,' and turned back to his table.

"No, surely not," she muttered, but she wasn't talking about Cedric's instructions.

This Umbridge woman was their new Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher. Hermione was virtually certain of it. And that translated to _all_ manner of not good, if Umbridge worked for Fudge. Harry hadn't sounded very happy, and Cedric hadn't _looked_ very happy.

In any case, the first years had arrived, and Professor McGonagall led them in, carrying the Sorting Hat stool with the hat sitting on it. This she placed in front of all four tables, moving back to arrange the first years so they faced the rest of the students. Hermione studied them critically, wondering who would become new Gryffindors even as the rip near the hat's brim opened, and the hat sang:

_In times of old when I was new and Hogwarts barely started  
The founders of our noble school thought never to be parted:  
United by a common goal, they had the selfsame yearning,  
To make the world's best magic school and pass along their learning.  
"Together we will build and teach!" the four good friends decided  
And never did they dream that they might someday be divided.  
For were there such friends anywhere as Slytherin and Gryffindor?  
Unless it was the second pair of Hufflepuff and Ravenclaw?  
So how could it have gone so wrong? How could such friendships fail?  
Why, I was there and so can tell the whole sad, sorry tale.  
Said Slytherin, "Well teach just those whose ancestry is purest."  
Said Ravenclaw, "We'll teach just those whose intelligence is surest."  
Said Gryffindor,"We'll teach all those with brave deeds to their name."  
Said Hufflepuff, "I'll teach the lot, and treat them just the same."  
These differences caused little strife when first they came to light,  
For each of the four founders had a House in which they might  
Take only those they wanted, so, for instance, Slytherin  
Took only pure-blood wizards of great cunning, just like him,  
And only those of sharpest mind were taught by Ravenclaw.  
While the bravest and the boldest went to daring Gryffindor.  
Good Hufflepuff, she took the rest, and taught them all she knew,  
Thus the Houses and their founders retained friendships firm and true._

_So Hogwarts worked in harmony for several happy years,  
But then discord crept among us feeding on our faults and fears.  
The Houses that, like pillars four, had once held up our school,  
Now turned upon each other and, divided, sought to rule.  
And for a while it seemed the school might meet an early end,  
What with dueling and with fighting and the clash of friend on friend  
And at last there came a morning when old Slytherin departed  
And though the fighting then died out he left us quite downhearted.  
And never since the founders four were whittled down to three  
Have the Houses been united as they once were meant to be.  
And now the Sorting Hat is here and you all know the score:  
I sort you into Houses because that is what I'm for,  
But this year I'll go further, listen closely to my song:  
Though condemned I am to split you still I worry that it's wrong.  
Though I must fulfill my duty and must quarter every year  
Still I wonder whether sorting may not bring the end I fear.  
Oh, know the perils, read the signs, the warning history shows,  
For our Hogwarts is in danger from external, deadly foes  
And we must unite inside her or we'll crumble from within  
I have told you, I have warned you . . . let the Sorting now begin._

Like everyone else, Hermione clapped, but she was looking around the hall, listening to the mutters. Behind her, she heard Ron say to Harry, "Branched out a bit this year, hasn't it?"

"Too right it has," Harry replied.

Hermione shook her head. They didn't get it. "I wonder if it's ever given _warnings_ before?" she asked, a bit pointedly.

"Yes, indeed," Nearly Headless Nick said from where he was leaning through Neville -- and that was just . . . bizarre, and a bit creepy. "The hat feels itself honor-bound to give the school due warning whenever it feels --"

But whatever he was going to say was cut off as McGonagall moved forward. Nearly Headless Nick even put a finger to his lips. Annoyed, Hermione frowned; she'd have to get it out of him later. Twisting in her seat, she looked back at the Hufflepuff table again. Cedric, seated between two other seventh years, was watching the front -- and the hat -- with a slightly troubling intensity.

* * *

When the Sorting Hat had finished its song, Cedric understood finally why he'd been chosen Head Boy, and what he needed to do. It wasn't arrogance, but a bone-deep comprehension of his role.

Violet was meant to keep the students in line but Cedric would pull them _together_. Last year, he'd been made Hogwarts Champion -- _Hogwarts_ Champion, not Hufflepuff. He might have shared it with Harry, but the Goblet hadn't intended that, and as much as he liked the younger boy, Cedric recognized that Harry functioned best on his own. He wasn't a team player, even at Quidditch. Seekers usually weren't. That's why Cedric had never much liked being both captain _and_ Seeker. A captain needed to watch what was going on in the game, but a Seeker had to concentrate on the snitch; they didn't mesh well. Harry went after snitches. Cedric couldn't afford to, not any more. He was needed as a bridge, the one uniting opposite banks. Someday, he wanted to be an ambassador, had wanted it since he'd been twelve years old and back from Canada with a new appreciation for a very different culture. That fascination with the Other had only grown since until he couldn't imagine doing anything else with his life.

And that's what he had to be now: an ambassador. No longer could he belong only to Hufflepuff, even if he'd always have them squarely behind him. From this night forward, he belonged to Hogwarts. Without consciously thinking, he reached up to touch the Head Boy badge on his left breast. The Hogwarts' crest, not his House's.

He watched the sorting with a kind of detached interest until the very last child -- that tiny girl with the ringlet curls -- was called forward: "Zeller, Rose." She almost had to climb onto the stool, and when the hat shouted "Hufflepuff!" he found himself grinning with a certain amount of proprietary delight. She hopped down from the stool and approached their table to take a seat on the far end.

Dumbledore had come forward. "To our newcomers, welcome! To our old hands -- welcome back! There is a time for speech making, but this is not it. Tuck in!"

Laughing, Cedric turned to watch the food materialize before them in bowls and on waiting platters. "I love a headmaster who knows when _not_ to talk," Peter said across the table from Cedric even as he, Cedric, Ed and Scott all reached for whatever dish had caught their fancy first. Cedric hadn't realized how hungry he was.

Table conversation revolved around who had done what that summer, who was taking what classes for NEWTs, and the Sorting Hat's song. "What in bloody hell was that about?" Ed asked, starting in on his second helping of pork chops. Cedric reached over to spear one despite Ed's protest of, "Hey!"

"You're taking them all," he said, elbowing Ed off.

"Can't believe that hat wants us to get along with Ravenclaw -- no offense to Cho, Ced -- or especially Slytherin," Peter said. "It must've gone batty in the July heat wave."

"The July heat wave didn't hit Scotland," Cedric pointed out. "And I think the meaning's obvious. We need to learn to work together. Last time, Voldemort operated by dividing people, making them afraid of each other. United we stand, divided we fall. Pretty simple."

All three of his denmates and a few others around had winced when he said 'Voldemort.' "But it's not like Slytherin wants anything to do with the rest of us," Scott said, reaching for the treacle tart. "They're too bloody proud -- and nobody takes Hufflepuff seriously, anyway. Did you hear that damn hat? It's like we're the left-overs House."

"We're the House that doesn't judge," Cedric corrected. "Maybe the only one that had it right from the beginning. The Hat's got a point -- Sorting's a bad idea. Helga didn't _want_ students sorted; she took everybody. That's how it should be. A little friendly competition's one thing, but this dead-serious war we get every year for the House Cup? I'm sick of it."

Ed was looking at him oddly, though Peter was nodding and at least Scott wasn't disagreeing. Cedric let his eyes move between them. "We're the House who knows the secret. We just have to teach it to the rest of them, right?" He cut his filched pork chop.

"Like they're going to listen to Hufflepuff?" Ed asked. "Scott's right. They think we're a joke."

"They won't by the time I'm done with them."

"What are you planning, mate?" Peter asked, leaning over the table, voice lowered. He looked intrigued, but then Peter was usually up for scheming of one type or another. It was the way their den worked. Cedric was the planner. Scott of the blue eyes and ready grin offered the best critique, stolid Ed with his athlete's short back and sides did the legwork as required, but shaggy-haired Peter was his rock, steady and dependable, if occasionally obnoxious in the bargain.

He really did have friends -- he always had. He just hadn't fully recognized it. "I'm not sure yet," Cedric told them around a bite of pork. "I'll let you know when I figure it out."

Then they talked about nothing else of import until supper was over and Dumbledore rose again. He went through the usual announcements, which Cedric mostly ignored. After seven years, they were rote, and he was more interested in a second helping of pudding. The mention of Grubbly-Plank got a somewhat enthusiastic grunt from Ed beside him. "No Hagrid, thank heavens."

But then Dumbledore added, " . . . we are also delighted to introduce Professor Umbridge, our new Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher."

Cedric choked on his pudding and turned to look up at the Head Table. It was as he'd feared. They were stuck with Madam Toad (as he'd dubbed her at Harry's trial). Yet Dumbledore had moved on and Cedric turned his head back to his plate at the mention of Quidditch tryouts. He'd have to talk to Madam Hooch about that soon -- turn in his robes and let the House elect a new captain. He wasn't looking forward to it.

Dumbledore's abrupt pause and a "Hem, hem," made him turn again to look. Everyone else around the hall appeared either astonished, indignant or amused as Umbridge said, "Thank you, Headmaster, for those kind words of welcome."

"What the fuck?" Scott muttered. Cedric, Ed and Peter all glanced at him, but he'd summed up their thoughts neatly, if not politely.

"Well, it's lovely to be back at Hogwarts," Umbridge was saying, "and to see such happy little faces looking back at me."

At that, Peter had to cram a fist in his mouth to avoid laughing out loud.

"I am very much looking forward to getting to know you all," Umbridge went on, "and I'm sure we'll be very good friends."

"Bloody hell," Ed said, leaning in towards Cedric. "What does she think this is? Kindergarten?"

Cedric didn't reply as his eyes flicked over students around the hall -- most of whom seemed as amused as his denmates. Abruptly, Umbridge's voice shifted from schoolmarm to something more firm as she launched into the heart of her speech, "The Ministry of Magic has always considered the education of young witches and wizards to be of vital importance . . . "

It wasn't long before she'd lost the attention of nearly everyone in the room. Ed and Peter were openly mocking her and Scott had returned to his desert. "Shhh!" Cedric hissed at Ed.

"What?" Ed asked, dumbstruck. "You're _listening_ to that rot?"

Cedric waved him silent. That 'rot' contained a number of carefully couched but alarming statements, including, ". . . progress for progress's sake must be discouraged, for our tried and tested traditions often require no tinkering," and ". . . because some changes will be for the better, while others will come, in the fullness of time, to be recognized as errors of judgment," and "Let us move forward, then, into a new era of openness, effectiveness, and accountability, intent on preserving what ought to be preserved, perfecting what needs to be perfected, and pruning wherever we find practices that ought to be prohibited."

She sat down. Dumbledore and the teachers clapped politely while the students seemed to clap more in relief that she was finished. Crossing his arms over his chest, Cedric muttered, "Bloody _hell._"

"What's wrong with you?" Ed asked. "I'm just chuffed she's done."

"She's not done," Cedric answered as Dumbledore went back to his announcements as if the speech hadn't been given. "She's not done by a _long shot_."

The other three just regarded him oddly as he reached for his crutches. "I've got to go," he said. "I've got to meet the first years in Flitwick's classroom with Violet."

"Since when?" Peter asked.

"New student orientation," Cedric replied, getting to his feet as Dumbledore finished and the other students began rising as well. He needed to hurry or he'd be caught in the crowd. "It's one of those new ideas I mentioned. I'll explain later." And he headed off. Fortunately, most of the Hufflepuffs on one side and Gryffindors on the other stayed seated as he moved past. He caught sight of Granger, hurrying with Weasley to gather first years, and struggled not to laugh as Ron called out, "Hey -- hey you lot! Midgets!"

_"Ronald!"_ Granger scolded in that indignant voice he'd oddly come to cherish.

"Well, they are, they're titchy --"

Moving out of earshot, Cedric didn't hear the rest, but Ron was right. They _were_ titchy -- babies, practically, and he hoped their first year at Hogwarts wasn't miserable. He had a very bad feeling about Umbridge.

* * *

This was Cedric's meeting. Hermione recognized as much almost immediately even though Cedric and Violet sat side-by-side atop Flitwick's desk at the bottom of the lecture hall. Something subtle in Violet's posture seemed to defer to him. Or perhaps it was just how he drew eyes even when he wasn't trying. A summer of getting to know him, plus his crippling and vulnerability, and her own infatuated fascination had confused her memory of how he could seem to others.

Here, now -- returned to Hogwarts -- she remembered, and had been remembering since first seeing him again on the train. Cedric had the gift of charisma. Not because he was especially extroverted. He wasn't. And some of it owed to the simple dynamics of his person: he was tall and striking. Yet it went beyond that. Cedric _sparkled_. A joy in living made eyes follow him down a corridor or across a lawn, and his easy grin invited others to share it. He lit things up without conscious effort.

And that wasn't just her infatuation speaking. The eye of every first year was on him now. "That's _Cedric Diggory_," she heard one of the new Gryffindors hiss to another as they settled into seats in the first row.

"Shh," she admonished, but gently, and added, "Yes, that's Cedric," just to feel his name on her tongue.

Once all the new students had found a place in Flitwick's theater-style lecture hall, Violet nudged Cedric, and Hermione saw her mouth _'Your show," _ which confirmed Hermione's suspicions.

"Hullo," Cedric said, glancing around at faces. "Welcome to Hogwarts. This is Violet Sykes, I'm Cedric Diggory, and we're your Head Girl and Head Boy for this year."

Hermione struggled to appear appropriately attentive rather than simply besotted, and noticed that he kept _not_ looking in her direction. Part of her feared he was ignoring her, but another -- increasingly bolder -- part understood he was trying to keep his focus too. Their conversation in the carriage after the prefects' meeting had gone a long way towards affirming that whatever it was they shared (she shied from putting a name to it), he wouldn't sacrifice it for image or expediency.

"Hogwarts is a big place, isn't it?" he asked the first years. Most just stared back, tongue-tied, but a few nodded. "Kind of intimidating?" More nods. "My first week here, I think I got lost about fifteen times. Once, I wound up in the girls' bathroom when I was trying to find Potions class."

There wasn't a peep from the first years. They just stared back, wide-eyed and somber. He raised an eyebrow. "You know, you're allowed to laugh at that. It was at least _intended_ to be a joke."

--which got giggles from some of the prefects.

"One of the first things I remember being told was, 'Trust nobody not in your House.' And I couldn't always trust those _in_ my House. Making life difficult for first years is an old tradition around here. But at least my House prefects could be counted on not to send me in the wrong direction. Unfortunately, when I _was_ lost, there wasn't usually a prefect from my own House around. The best I can say for the situation is that I accidentally found my way to the kitchens, which came in handy later when I was hungry."

Finally, a couple of the first years tittered without prompting.

"None of that got me to Potions on time, though. Fortunately for you lot, we're putting an end to that state of affairs. Turn around and look at the people standing on the top row behind you." They did, with much whispering and rustling of robes. "Those are your prefects. Regardless of their House or yours, if you need directions this first week -- ask one of them. There are four Houses with four prefects each. That's sixteen people, plus Violet and me, who you can count on to help you out." He glanced up at the top row again. "None of them will send you in the wrong direction." Hermione thought he might have locked eyes with Montague, but then he looked back at the first years.

"I'm going to introduce them to you one at a time, although I doubt you'll remember their names. Still, you should know what they look like and be able to recognize them by their badges if nothing else. I'll start with the prefects from Hufflepuff in the yellow and black ties on my left. First is Desdemona Reilly, a sixth year from Ireland. She plays Beater for the Hufflepuff Quidditch team, likes peanut brittle, and Charms class. Beside her is Hannah Abbot with the blond hair, a fifth year. Hannah is best friends with Ernie MacMillan on her other side. Between them, they've got more Chocolate Frogs cards than anyone has a right to, and she keeps hers sorted in alphabetical order in shoe boxes."

And he went on. At first, Hermione thought his ability to rattle off personal details applied only to his fellow Hufflepuffs, but it continued as he introduced them all. How much he knew varied, but she was still amazed by the fact he could offer at least a few details about everyone. He was even kind to the Slytherins and Hermione wondered how much it cost him to say, "Draco Malfoy, whose father is one of the Hogwarts governors. He plays Seeker for Slytherin's Quidditch team, and he's a great flier."

He came to her about halfway through and she felt her ears and cheeks grow hot. "Hermione Granger, possibly the cleverest girl at Hogwarts even in her fifth year. She likes the color pink --"

"Rose," she objected aloud without thinking, "My favorite color is dusty rose -- not _pink_."

"-- and she has no trouble telling me off, as you can see," he added, grinning, eyes warm on her. "It's part of her charm, along with the fact she ties her hair in knots when she's thinking something over, and smacks you on the arm -- hard -- if she thinks you're being cheeky."

Lips pursed, she glared down at him but he ignored it. He was yanking her chain now. He'd also made every prefect except Ron glance in her direction, wondering when she and Cedric had talked long enough for him to get himself smacked. Ron was studiously _not_ looking in her direction.

It was only at the very end of the introductions as she glanced around to the door that she noticed Dumbledore sitting quietly just inside it, hands folded together on his chest. What was the Headmaster doing there, and when had he arrived? If Cedric had seen Dumbledore, he gave no indication, his focus still on the students. "There, that's everyone. Do any of you have any questions?"

Apparently more at ease, several hands went up. Cedric patiently answered each -- was there always that much food for supper? (no), could they bring pets to class with them? (wasn't a terribly good idea), when would they do homework? (usually after supper or at prep if one was scheduled), and so on. Meanwhile the prefects shuffled feet, bored and annoyed. Perhaps to give him more time, or to speed things up, Violet left the table to climb the risers and gather the prefects, walking them down the first floor hall to the prefects' lounge and the small offices that she and Cedric had at the back of it. 'Lounge,' Hermione thought, was a bit of an understatement. The room had overstuffed velveteen couches in jewel tones, a crystal chandelier, and several private study cubicles of hand-hewn, carved oak, "for you to use if you'd rather have someplace quieter than a house common room."

By the time they returned, the question-and-answer session was winding down and Violet called out from the top tier, "If you've got more questions, ask your house prefects. Please join them now and they'll take you back to your houses."

Remembering that Cedric had told her to talk to him later, Hermione whispered to Ron, "Cover for me. I'll be back to help in a minute." Then she eeled her way against the tide coming up the tiers as she climbed down to where Cedric still sat atop the desk. He watched her come.

"Picky about colors, aren't we?" he asked by way of greeting.

"You're a prat," she replied, but conversationally. "Did you see Dumbledore?"

"He came in just after we got started -- shook his head at me. He didn't want to be introduced."

"What's he here for?"

"Probably to talk to me."

"Why?"

"I suppose I'll find out. You should go with your House," he told her. It wasn't quite an admonition.

"I will. But you said you wanted me to see you later? At supper, remember?"

"Oh. Yes. It'll have to wait. Meet me in the library tomorrow after classes are over?"

"All right." She turned to hurry and catch up to the Gryffindors.

"Granger," he called and she glanced back. "Dusty rose. I'll remember."

"You're still a prat," she told him.

Laughing, he replied, "You like me that way."

She did. But she sniffed anyway and left him sitting there on the desk. It was only later that she realized she had no idea what his favorite color was.

* * *

When all the other students were gone, Dumbledore finally stood and waited as Cedric made his way up to join him. "Sorry it took so long," he said, a little out of breath on the crutches.

Studying Cedric over the top of his half-moon spectacles, Dumbledore merely smiled. "Time well spent, I think. Now come, Mr. Diggory. I want to show you a few of Hogwarts' little secrets." And he winked.

Put that way, it made the tour of magical modifications for handicapped students a bit less bitter for Cedric to swallow. There were stairways that could move like those he'd seen in Muggle department stores, and a hidden lift in the antechamber off the main entrance. The steps leading out of the back door to the courtyard swept flat into a ramp if one tapped the banister base three times, and all the towers had hidden lifts, as well.

The tour took almost an hour and it was nearing ten-thirty before they headed back to the main entrance where the staircase led down to the Hufflepuff common room. Cedric was exhausted even though he'd gone back to the chair halfway through the tour at Dumbledore's suggestion. His body ached and when they'd reached the entranceway, he braked his chair to pull out his flask of Abdoleo. Watching him unstopper it and drink, Dumbledore said, "I have your class timetable for you now so you don't have to wait until breakfast, as you may need a bit of extra time." And he drew the parchment from his pocket, handing it to Cedric, who resealed the flask and then accepted the timetable, unfolding it to glance it over.

It wasn't quite what he'd expected. "No Transfigurations?"

"Look at the bottom."

Cedric did. "Special classes?" he asked, confused.

"Professor McGonagall believes that between your natural aptitude and the preparations you made for the Tournament last year, you've moved so far beyond your classmates that even NEWT-level classes would waste your time." Dumbledore smiled. "She has something special in mind, I believe."

Cedric felt his eyebrow go up, but didn't ask what. He'd find out tomorrow, since he had his first lesson after class, just before supper -- which meant he'd have to find a different time to meet with Granger. He noticed another notation at the bottom of the timetable, but that pleased him rather less. "I have special classes with Professor _Snape_, too? I'm not taking Potions." He'd received an E on his OWL and Snape didn't accept even an E for NEWT-level.

"Professor Snape believes -- and I agree -- that it might be in your best interest to learn to brew your own medical potions rather than depend wholly on others to brew them for you."

Cedric glanced up. He had a hard time believing Snape would care. The man didn't particularly like him, even if he also hadn't given him the same amount of grief he'd given Ed; Cedric had usually paired himself with Ed in class just to keep Snape off Ed's back. Snape probably wanted to teach Cedric to make the potions so he didn't have to bother with it himself. Abdoleo was simple enough for Madam Pomfrey to handle, but the precise mix of Restituo required for the severe spell damage to Cedric's lower body meant a trained apothecary or -- here -- a Potions Master had to brew it.

"What if I make it wrong?" Cedric asked, rubbing at his right leg, which was starting to ache rather badly. He considered taking more potion, but he should wait until he went to bed. It would put him to sleep if he took more now on top of the first dose. "It's supposed to be incredibly complicated."

"Professor Snape will be supervising you carefully, Cedric. We won't take chances with your health." He tilted his head. "Any other objections to your timetable?" It was said lightly, but even the Headmaster could lose his patience.

"No, sir," Cedric said now, folding the parchment back up and tucking it in a pocket of his robes.

"Then let me show you the last thing -- your room."

"My room? But won't I -- ?"

"Could you manage to get to your old room several times a day and on a tight schedule?"

That brought him up short. He honestly hadn't given it a lot of thought, but Dumbledore was right. The Sett hadn't been designed for handicapped students to navigate. He could reach the Common Room -- it was just past double doors and down four steps -- but the maze of tunnels leading to the dormitories, or dens, might be difficult to maneuver through on anything like a regular basis. "I won't be in the Sett?"

"You will always belong to your House, Cedric -- and be welcome there. But we didn't think the dormitories would be the best place for you to sleep. In fact, relatively speaking, it's somewhat recent that the Head Boy and Girl have remained in their Houses. When I attended here, each had their own rooms. That was," he added with a twinkle, "well over a century ago. Nonetheless, the rooms still exist. We reopened the Head Boy's chambers for you."

"Chambers?" Cedric asked, bemused. "But my denmates --"

"-- have been told you won't be sleeping there. In fact, Mr. Adamson and Mr. Summers took your trunk and Esiban up to your new rooms." Dumbledore led him back to the antechamber lift. Once inside, he tapped the fifth floor and said, "Your room is just down the main hallway next to the Prefects' Bathroom -- to which it has its own entrance, although you'll find that, as with the main door, it won't open if the room is already occupied." He winked.

"Wouldn't dream of peeking," Cedric replied, but he couldn't really say it with a straight face. There were a few of the girls . . . maybe one in particular . . .

He stopped that train of thought.

There were no stairs between the lift and his new rooms, and when Dumbledore opened the door for him, there was no down step, either. The floors were completely level. He could get around here easily. In fact, someone had been in not just to clean it up and air it out, but to insure that the furniture left open areas for his chair and no obstacle course for the crutches. He wasn't just being shuffled off here out of the way of the fully ambulatory -- they'd thought about what would be easy for _him_.

Rolling in, he looked around. The room wasn't large, but it was sumptuous, decorated in eighteenth-century gilt wallpaper and all four House colors: garnet, citron, emerald and sapphire. A chandelier of candles hung above and there were tapestries on the walls. In one corner sat a large teak desk with lamps. He ran his hand along the top of one patterned brocade sofa with teak accents while Dumbledore lit a fire in the grate. He was supposed to live here? He felt as if he occupied a museum.

The raccoon clicking madly in the corner to get his attention, however, didn't fit in a museum, and he had to laugh. "You're going to be a mess in here," he said, rolling his chair over to let the animal out. Esiban immediately climbed the chair to perch on his lap.

"Allow me to show you one other thing, then I shall leave you to settle in."

Cedric turned the chair and followed the Headmaster into the bedroom. It was somewhat smaller than the sitting area, most of the space taken up by a large draped bed, a wardrobe, a dressing table, and, in the corner, his old trunk -- looking quite small, battered and pathetic amid the splendor. "The toilet is through there," Dumbledore pointed. "We procured hand holds for you, but have left you to affix them with a Sticking charm, as you know best where you need them to be. The door to the prefects' bathroom opens from the other side of the toilet. But this is what I wanted to show you."

Moving to the wardrobe, he opened it with a tap of his wand, then lit the wand tip and motioned Cedric over. Skirting the bed, Cedric rolled nearer and Dumbledore pointed inside the empty space. All along the walls were the carved initials of centuries of Head Boys. It was clearly a tradition. Cedric leaned forward to see a set Dumbledore indicated near the back on the left**:** A.P.W.B.D.

"Whose are those?"

"Mine," Dumbledore said with a grin. "I think . . . " he glanced around the inside of the wardrobe, ". . . yes, I do believe that I was the third-to-last to occupy this room. No one since has left his mark." Turning back to Cedric, he added, "But I believe there are still a few empty spots, Mr. Diggory. You must use your wand tip, not a knife. Anything you carve with a blade will be gone again by next day."

"I don't know any spells for carving with a wand tip," Cedric protested.

"Ah -- that is the puzzle each Head Boy must solve. I have faith in your cleverness." And he moved back, extinguishing his wand and shutting the wardrobe doors. "And that is quite enough for one evening. I bid you a good night. Try not to fall asleep in the bath," he added on the way out, chuckling.

And the door shut, leaving Cedric to explore his new rooms. Despite their grandeur, he missed the noise of the Sett, and his denmates' company -- even Ed's snoring. It was very silent in these rooms, and cold, despite the fire. He might have liked to take advantage of the bath's proximity -- hot water often eased pain in his lower body -- but it was already after eleven so he put it off in favor of sleep.

It still took him half an hour to unpack, set up Esiban's litter box, and get ready for bed. Then he lifted himself out of the chair and into the four-poster where he removed the braces from his lower legs. Esiban waited on the spare pillow, chittering at him. "Hush, you. I know you were fed." Propping the braces against his bedside table, he hauled his legs up. Once in a bed, it was difficult -- or at least tedious -- for him to get out again until morning. He set the urinal on the tabletop in case he needed it, as well as his Abdoleo flask. Then he waved a wand to douse the lights and tried to sleep, but he'd never been good at turning off his mind, and the room's almost oppressive quiet didn't help. He kept thinking of Umbridge, or the Hat's song, or Hermione -- or Cho. Esiban crisscrossed his legs several times, then got off the bed to explore in the dark. Worried at what the raccoon was getting into, he tsked, calling him back up. "Don't trust you. Now settle down or I'll have to get up and put you in your cage." Esiban hissed to show his opinion of that suggestion, but did settle down against Cedric's side. Running his hands through the raccoon's thick fur, Cedric finally managed to drift off.

Somewhere in the wee small hours of morning, shooting pains in his legs and a terrible cramping woke him again. Fumbling for the Abdoleo flask, he swallowed a generous amount, then tried to ignore the pain until the potion took effect. It hadn't been this bad since right after he'd left St. Mungo's. His breath came fast as he struggled not to whimper like a child. Esiban was awake, too, and nuzzled his cheek, little nose wet and cold. He chittered a question. "I'm all right," Cedric whispered back. "Just hurts a bit." Turning around three times, Esiban settled right beside Cedric's head.

Cedric slept once more, only to wake again with the same severe symptoms. He was fairly sure it was past sunrise by that point, but he had no window and it hurt too much to look for his pocket watch. His right leg in particular was on fire and twitching, and he had to grab the sheets to keep from crying out. Esiban was nosing him almost frantically. "Stop!" he snapped. He took more pain medication -- almost all he had -- then used the urinal and lay back, panting and waiting for the Abdoleo to knock him out once more. "Sorry," he said to the raccoon who'd burrowed against his side as if he could soothe Cedric with his body. "I can't get up to feed you." Fumbling for his wand, he pointed it through the open bedroom door, whispering, "_Alohamora." _The front door cracked open. To Esiban, he said, "Go on. Go to the kitchens. They'll give you something to eat." The raccoon climbed up on his chest, looking down at him a moment, then leapt to the floor and scuttled off. Cedric spelled the door shut, rolling onto his side and covering his head with a pillow.

What a way to begin his final year, unable even to get out of bed for his first class. Maybe he shouldn't have tried to come back here.

* * *

Still annoyed at the twins and their Skiving Snackboxes -- and more worried than she cared to admit by their dire warnings of fifth-year class stress -- Hermione sat at the Gryffindor table after breakfast, scanning her new timetable and listening to Ron and Harry discuss OWLs. "D'you reckon it's true," Harry asked, "that this year's going to be really tough? Because of the exams?"

"Oh, yeah. Bound to be, isn't it?" Ron replied. "OWLs are really important, affect the jobs you can apply for and everything. We get career advice, too, later this year, Bill told me. So you can choose what NEWTs you want to do next year."

"D'you know what you want to do after Hogwarts?"

"Not really. Except . . . well . . . "

Curious at his bashful tone, Hermione glanced up in time to see Ron's face take on a sheepish expression. "What?" Harry asked him.

"Well, it'd be cool to be an Auror," Ron said, trying to sound unconcerned.

"Yeah, it would," Harry replied with rather more enthusiasm.

"But they're, like, the elite," Ron pointed out. "You've got to be really good --" Abruptly, he let out a bark of laughter and pointed at something over Hermione's shoulder.

Frowning, she turned in time to see Esiban waddling his way down the whole length of the Hufflepuff table, right over the food (to cries of outrage from those still eating). "What on earth . . ?" she muttered. She sincerely doubted Cedric let his pet run wild in the castle.

The raccoon stopped in front of one of Cedric's older friends, rose up on his back legs, and made odd clicking noises, as if he were telling the boy something. Apparently not speaking raccoon, the boy scooped Esiban off his plate and dumped him on the floor. "Cheeky beast. Where's your master? I know he doesn't let you sit on the dishes."

But Esiban was back up on the table moments later, in the middle of the shaggy-haired boy's plate once more. "What's up with you?" the boy said, shoving him again. "Gerroff!"

Her last pumpkin muffin still in hand, Hermione rose to walk over even as Cho Chang approached, too, from the Ravenclaw table. Seeing Cho, Hermione hung back. "Where's Ced, Peter?" Cho asked.

"I thought he was with you," the shaggy-haired boy -- Peter, apparently -- replied.

"I haven't seen him all morning. He's not been to breakfast yet. Isn't he up?"

"I have no idea. He's not in our room anymore."

"What? Why?"

"Dumbledore moved him." Peter didn't look happy, and it was news to Hermione as well. She wondered what Cedric thought of it. "He's upstairs now. They said he can't get in and out of our den well enough." Peter's frown deepened. "We'd have taken a new room for him, but nobody _asked_."

"Upstairs where?" Cho pressed.

"Old Head-Boy suite next to the prefects' bathroom."

Hermione didn't wait to hear more. Turning on her heel, she hurried out of the hall, Harry and Ron following after. "You think something's wrong with Ced?" Harry asked as they made their way up the stairs.

"I think Cedric's raccoon is desperately trying to get someone's attention, yes," she answered. "He's very clever, Esiban."

Hermione hadn't yet had the opportunity to use the prefects' bathroom, but she and Ron -- and Harry, of course -- all knew where it was after last year**:** fourth door to the left from the statue of Boris the Bewildered. But a door stood to either side of it, spaced at equal distances. "Which d'you suppose is his room?" Harry asked, looking between them.

"I don't know --" Hermione cut off as Cho, the boy Peter, and two other seventh years came down the hallway toward them from the direction of the stairs . . . Esiban waddling in the lead.

"What are you doing here?" Cho asked as they approached.

"Uh --" Harry appeared completely tongue-tied in Cho's presence.

"Move," Peter said, face serious as he pushed past Hermione to approach the door on the right, banging hard. "Ced? You in there, mate?"

There was no reply and Peter tried the glass knob. It was open and he and the other two older boys went in, leaving Cho in the hallway with Hermione, Harry and Ron.

She turned on all three of them. "What _are_ you doing here?"

"Uh," Harry said again, and Hermione cut in, "We saw that Esiban was upset. We thought perhaps we should check on Cedric."

Cho's expression hovered between confusion and annoyance. "What do you think we're doing?" But before she could say more, one of the older boys whose name Hermione didn't know burst out of the door again and took off at a run down the hallway. Alarmed now, all four made their way inside, a bit tentatively in case Cedric wasn't decent. Yet they found themselves in a small but beautifully decorated sitting room. The door to the bedroom beyond was half open and they could hear Peter talking to Cedric. "Hey, mate, hold on there. Ed went for Madam Pomfrey."

Harry pushed forward into the bedroom, as well. "What's wrong with Cedric?"

There was a pause and Hermione could just imagine the older boys wondering who Harry thought he was. "It's okay," she heard Cedric say, his voice very strained. "I'll be all right, Harry. Just -- having a bad day. Happens sometimes." Hermione bit the side of her hand. She'd known his legs still pained him occasionally, but she'd never heard him sound like _that_.

Cho had moved halfway across the sitting room floor, as if unsure she'd be allowed in Cedric's bedroom. Hermione wanted to join her, but didn't dare. It wasn't her place, no matter how much she wished she could _see _how Cedric was, not just listen. She stood with Ron just inside the main entrance, glancing around at the furnishings without really paying attention. Cedric's raccoon sat atop the sofa, up on its hind legs, watching the bedroom door. Realizing she still held a muffin, Hermione approached Esiban, offering it to him. "Good boy for coming to get us," she said. Esiban eyed the muffin a moment, then snatched it from her and scuttled off to a corner to eat.

"That is one seriously weird animal," Ron observed. "I'm surprised Cedric's allowed to bring it."

"Like I said," Hermione replied as she came back to stand beside him, "Esiban's very clever. And Cedric would miss him terribly if he had to stay home. Imagine if someone took Hedwig from Harry?"

"It's still not exactly your standard pet."

A few minutes later, Madam Pomfrey arrived with the third boy, Ed. Entering the bedroom, she asked a few questions, then Hermione heard her scold, "You've overtaxed yourself, young man. This curse attacks your _nervous system_. Too much stress causes a flare up. I want you to stay in bed today and sleep, and I'm going to have a word with Professor Dumbledore. I can't believe he made you Head Boy on top of everything else you've been through. Take this." She must be giving Cedric a potion. "Mr. Summers, go and fetch him some breakfast." One of the older boys -- the good-looking, blue-eyed one -- ducked out to leave the suite. "And I'd like one of you to stay with him," Madam Pomfrey finished.

"I don't need --"

"You be quiet."

"I'll stay," Cho called from outside the door, moving up finally to peer around the edge.

"No, really. Cho -- go to class. I don't need a babysitter."

"Apparently you do, Mr. Diggory, as you don't seem to know your physical limits. Miss Chang may stay. Perhaps she can talk some sense into you. The rest of you, go away and let him rest."

Harry, Peter and the big boy named Ed emerged as Cho went in. Peter and Ed paused beside Hermione and Ron, and Harry. "We'll be back to check on him later," Peter said. "He's still our denmate, wherever they're making him sleep."

It was, Hermione thought, a polite dismissal. She, Harry and Ron were being told they'd trespassed. Harry, however, wasn't in the mood to be pushed around, even by seventh years. "He's my friend, too, and he saved my life. I'll be by later to check on him, as well."

Peter and Ed seemed a bit taken aback, and Hermione laid a hand on his arm. "Harry? We'd best go or we'll be late to Binns' class." To the other two, she said, "Excuse us," and she pulled Harry and Ron out the door.

"Prats," Harry muttered as he followed her down the hallway. "They act like Ced's their property."

"Well imagine how you'd feel if some little third year you barely knew talked as if he had special rights to Ron? They're his _friends_, Harry. They've known him for six years."

"Really fine friends when they couldn't be bothered to visit him in hospital all this summer, aren't they?"

Hermione didn't reply because Harry had a point, however sharply stated. Yet given the worried expressions she'd seen on their faces, she wondered if the fact Cedric hadn't had visitors that summer was because they hadn't made an effort, or because Cedric had kept them subtly at bay? Sometimes he wore personal space like plate armor.

In any case, they made it to Binn's class on the edge of late, and for once she was glad their professor was oblivious. As per usual, Harry and Ron paid the lecture no attention, leaving her to take notes from the dreadful bore, although she was terribly worried about Cedric and having a difficult time paying attention. She was so _sick_ of this. "How would it be," she told them after class as they left the room, "if I refused to lend you my notes this year?"

"We'd fail our OWLs," said Ron. "If you want that on your conscience, Hermione . . . "

She spun on him. "Well, you'd deserve it! You don't even try to listen to him, do you?" What she wanted to say was, 'You just take advantage of me because you know I'll let you.'

"We do try," Ron said, putting on his best 'innocent' face. "We just haven't got your brains or your memory or your concentration -- you're just cleverer than we are -- is it nice to rub it in?"

"Oh, don't give me that rubbish." She knew he was conning her, but she dropped the argument and pushed out into the courtyard. It was drizzling, the sky overhead as gray as her thoughts. Ron and Harry were debating what lesson they'd get in potions and she wasn't really paying attention until -- of all people -- Cho Chang rounded the corner, hesitating at the sight of them. Wasn't Cho supposed to be watching Cedric? Who was taking care of him then? Had they left him alone?

Cho approached. "Hi, Harry, Ron . . . Hermione."

Harry had stood up, smoothing his robes. "How's Ced?"

"He made me leave." She glanced down, frowning. "He doesn't want me to miss class, plus he hates being babied, as he put it. I quote -- 'Go away and let me die in peace.'" She tried to smile but it wasn't convincing. "He was the same way after the Second Task when he came down with a cold from the Lake. Terrible patient."

Hermione wasn't sure if Cho were just making conversation, or attempting a subtle reminder that she'd been in the Lake with him as his 'treasure.' And Hermione didn't remember Cedric not wanting visitors in St. Mungo's. Maybe he just didn't want _Cho_. (She immediately suppressed that thought.)

In any case, Ron interrupted with the most beside-the-point question ever, "Is that a Tornados' badge? You don't support them, do you?"

Cho -- and Harry, too -- seemed startled. "Yeah, I do," Cho replied, hand going up to cover the little blue badge with the T on it.

"Have you always supported them or just since they started winning the league?"

"I've supported them since I was six," Cho answered with a sniff, then turned on her heel. "Anyway . . . I'll see you later, Harry."

Hermione spun on Ron. "You are so tactless!"

"What? I only asked her if --"

"Don't you think she might be worried about Cedric? Maybe she wanted to talk about him, not have you attack her about Quidditch teams." Not to mention that Ron had just lost her the opportunity to find out more about Cedric's condition.

"Attacking? I wasn't attacking her, I was only --"

"Who cares if she supports the Tornados?"

"Oh, come on, half the people you see wearing those badges only bought them last season --"

"What does it matter?" Hermione was yelling now and she realized, vaguely, that her own reaction to Ron made no more sense than his challenge to Cho in the first place. She was just upset and worried on the one hand, and feeling as though Ron and Harry were taking advantage of her on the other.

"That's the bell," Harry interrupted and they all headed down to the dungeon for Potions, which was, if possible, even worse than History of Magic. At least history was simply boring. Snape was his usual vicious self, and Hermione, who was used to being appreciated by teachers, had never understood why he didn't like her no matter how hard she tried. His dislike predated her friendship with Harry too, so she knew it wasn't that alone.

At least she was able to produce a proper Draught of Peace that didn't incur any critique from Snape. But when he vanished Harry's less-than-stellar potion, leaving him with nothing to turn in for a grade, Hermione seethed all the same. Snape was so unfair, and she said so as soon as they were at lunch.

"Yeah, well, since when has Snape ever been fair to me?"

"I did think he might be a bit better this year," she said. "I mean . . . you know . . . " She glanced around to be sure no one could overhear. "Now he's in the Order and everything."

"Poisonous toadstools don't change their spots," Ron said. "Anyway, I've always thought Dumbledore was cracked trusting Snape; where's the evidence he really stopped working for You Know Who?"

Hermione frowned, because she had her private doubts, as well, but she said, "I think Dumbledore's probably got plenty of evidence, even if he doesn't share it with you, Ron."

"Oh, shut up, the pair of you," Harry said before Ron could answer. He sounded tired and annoyed at once, and Hermione glanced at him. "Can't you give it a rest? You're always having a go at each other, it's driving me mad." And abruptly, he rose from the Gryffindor table to stalk off, leaving behind his mostly untouched shepherd's pie, and her with Ron.

They watched him depart, then Hermione said. "I wish he'd stop taking his temper out on us." Ron just shrugged, but looked shamefaced all the same.

Hermione was no longer hungry either, and glanced around, noting the blue-eyed boy who was friends with Cedric carrying two plates. She rose. "I'll meet up with you and Harry after your Divination class. I need to do some work." And she headed out after the boy. "Excuse me," she said, running to catch him in the Entrance Hall. "Is that plate for Cedric?"

The boy turned to smile down at her. He was entirely too attractive for comfort with wide cheekbones and vividly blue eyes. "You're Granger."

"Yes."

"Ced talks about you a bit."

She blushed. He did? "Um, I've finished eating. I can take him his lunch." She suddenly felt desperate to talk to someone friendly.

He eyed her, then handed over the extra plate. "Tell him we're thinking about him, all right?"

"I will," she said accepting it; it was still warm. "You know my name, but I don't know yours."

"Scott Summers," he said, and turning with his own plate, went back into the Great Hall.

She climbed the stairs to the fifth floor and found her way back to Cedric's rooms, knocking softly in case he was asleep.

"Come in," he called, and she opened the door. It had a heavy glass knob instead of an old-fashioned ring. "It's you!" He sounded surprised. And he was out of bed, too, sitting in his wheelchair at the big teak desk in the front room, reading something, dressed in a white undershirt and tracksuit trousers.

"I thought you were supposed to be _resting_?" she scolded.

"I am resting. If I sleep any more, I'll have a headache." He waved her over and took the plate, moving his book and setting it on the desk in front of him. "Thank you. I'm starving."

Backing up, she sat down in an elegant wing chair and watched him dig in. "How do you feel?"

"Better. But then, I've had so much Abdoleo, I'm as high as a kite."

She giggled. "You don't sound it." Although he did, perhaps, look it. There was something glassy about his eyes that she remembered from St. Mungo's.

"Give me five minutes. I'm bound to say something silly."

"You sent Cho away." He glanced over sharply and Hermione explained, "We saw her in the courtyard. She's worried about you, you know."

He just shook his head. "She was smothering me, and I was still grumpy. If I didn't make her leave, I'd've said something unfortunate."

She watched him. There were things she wanted to ask -- about Cho and what he felt for her -- but this wasn't the time, and she lacked the courage anyway.

He was watching her, too. "You seem unhappy."

Sighing, she hesitated, then found herself blurting out everything -- the quarrel after History of Magic, her frustration with Harry and Ron, the mess with Cho, Snape's unfairness to Harry, and Harry blowing up at her and Ron afterwards at lunch. He listened quietly while he ate, and she wondered how he could do that -- get her to confide her frustrations so easily. Maybe it was just that he did _listen_.

When she ran out of words (and he ran out of food), he pushed the plate aside and frowned. "From now on, tell Harry and Ron to take their own notes. It's really unfair of them to expect you to do their work for them, the lazy gits. Binns is deadly dull -- pun intended; you've just got to grin and bear it. If they want to pass their OWL, they can go to the library and read some books on the lecture topic. Then they can play hangman in class all they like and it won't matter. That's what I did."

She found herself smiling. "You just said the L-word." At his puzzled glance, she elaborated. "_Library. _They both tend to avoid it."

"Oh, bloody hell, that's their problem." She laughed. He must be a bit high -- he wasn't usually so blunt in his criticism of people. "As for the rest of it," he went on, "Snape picks a scapegoat in every class. I think it makes him feel superior or something. In our year, it was Ed. He's got a good heart, but not a sharp mind, bless him. Snape was positively vicious -- can't count the number of times he called him a brainless moron to his face. But Ed could fly rings around him on a Quidditch Pitch! Doubt Snape could even stay _on_ a broom, the swot."

Hermione flushed, pricked a bit by Cedric's dismissal as she wasn't an especially good flier either, and she'd been called 'swot' often enough, growing up. She knew he hadn't meant to hurt her, but when he'd had too much pain medication, he talked twice as much and twice as fast -- and without watching what he said. Most of the time, she liked it. Unguarded Cedric was charming -- a bit like unkempt Cedric. (Just now, half his hair was sticking out.) But occasionally, he said something he might not have otherwise, and she decided then that she'd never let him see her fly.

"Is Ed one of the boys from this morning?" she asked. She thought she remembered one of them being called Ed.

"The one with the very short hair, yes. Ed Carpenter."

"The others?"

"Peter Adamson and Scott Summers. They're my denmates -- well, were."

"I met Scott; he had your lunch originally. He asked me to tell you that they're thinking about you." Cedric smiled at that. "Are you angry to be up here?" she asked abruptly. "I overheard Peter tell Cho this morning that Dumbledore moved you without asking anyone. I think he was insulted."

The smile fell off Cedric's face and he looked away. "I miss the Sett." Gray eyes flicking back to her, he explained, "That's what we call our dormitory. A sett is a --"

"A badger den. I know."

"It's a bit of a warren, actually. Lots of narrow halls with sharp corners, steps up and down into rooms -- used to be a cellar. I could still get around it, but --" He shrugged. "I suppose Dumbledore thought this would be easier for me. I can go right out the door, down the hall to a lift that takes me to the first floor, the classrooms, and the Great Hall. Direct route. Even if I could get around the Sett, it'd be a lot more problematic to get anywhere on time, and I couldn't come and go easily."

It was the most Hermione had ever heard about the Hufflepuff dormitories. "For what it's worth, I'm sorry you got moved," she said.

He shrugged and glanced back at his plate to conceal his feelings. "If I hadn't, I don't suppose you'd be sitting here, would you?"

"I suppose not," she agreed, glancing around, really seeing the room finally. "It's . . . quite something."

"Used to be the Head Boy's chambers."

"Used to be? Still is, if you're here."

He grinned. "Touché. Although I might feel better about it if they'd given Violet the Head Girl's room."

"You're near the bathroom, at least."

"There is that, but Dumbledore made me promise not to peek in on the girls. Rather takes the fun out of it." She burst out laughing at the unexpectedness of that remark and his cheeks pinked from blushing. "Sorry. Shouldn't have said that. Just teasing -- honest."

She laughed harder. "It's all right. And what did you want to talk about in the library later? I don't think you'll be getting there today."

Turning serious, he frowned. "Umbridge. Do you know who she is?"

"Not really. Harry said she works for Fudge, and was at his trial."

"She's Fudge's personal Undersecretary at the Ministry. Now she's here -- teaching. She's _not_ a teacher." His scowl deepened. With those heavy brows, he could look rather forbidding. "I want to talk to my mother about her to see what she knows."

"Your mother? Doesn't your father work for the Ministry?"

"Yes, but my mother was in her House, even if I'm fairly sure Umbridge is quite a bit older. Still, my mother might know something."

"What was her House?" Hermione asked, curious.

"Can't you guess after that speech Umbridge gave? Slytherin."

And Hermione sat back, stunned at that bit of news. Cedric's mother had been in Slytherin? But was married to Amos Diggory? Then again, she was related to Sirius, and Cedric had said she was a pure blood. Maybe, like Sirius, she'd been a black sheep? But Sirius hadn't been in Slytherin House. Hermione had a difficult time imagining a Slytherin as mother to a Hufflepuff, especially as the two of them seemed rather _close_.

"You're shocked," he said, eying her. "And I don't think it's about Umbridge.

"A bit," she admitted. "I suppose I just assumed your mother was in Ravenclaw, or Gryffindor."

"Naturally not Hufflepuff." He sounded suddenly aggressive. "Hufflepuff is full of _pushover_s, and Slytherin is the _bad_ House, right?"

Flushing, she glared. "I didn't say either of those things, Ced."

Dropping his head back to stare up at the candle-laden chandelier, he sighed. "Sorry. You didn't. But I think them sometimes." His head came down again. "You heard the Sorting Hat's song, right?" She nodded. "Voldemort works by dividing people."

"I know," she said. "I told Harry and Ron that this morning. Ron's response was, 'If that means we're supposed to get matey with the Slytherins, fat chance.'"

Cedric snorted. "I don't like Slytherin," he admitted bluntly. "But I love my mother. She's the best of what that House is, Hermione. It has its strengths."

"I know it does -- it must, or it wouldn't still be part of Hogwarts." Or that's what she always told herself when she was feeling especially vicious towards Draco or Pansy or the others.

He was watching her with a kind of vague intensity that she thought owed half to the drugs; his pupils were dilated. "We've got to find a way for all the Houses -- all four of them -- to work together. Umbridge is here to undermine Dumbledore, maybe even get him sacked. I'm virtually certain of it. And she'll succeed if we let her divide us." Then he leaned forward, head lowered a bit, frowning at his long hands. "Can I tell you a secret? One you can't tell anybody else -- even Harry? Probably shouldn't, but I need to tell someone."

She nodded.

"I knew I was Head Boy back in July. Dumbledore asked me in advance if I'd be."

She stared at him, shocked. "He _asked_ you? Isn't that -- ?"

"Highly irregular, yes. But he told me he wasn't doing me any favors and wouldn't put it on me without my permission. I think he knew this was coming then, and needed someone in the Order as Head Boy, in case they do manage to remove him. Someone who'll still be here. It's a war, Hermione, and not just against Voldemort. That's the problem. This war has _three_ fronts, and one of them's the Ministry of Magic. Umbridge is Fudge's weapon at Hogwarts."

She wanted to argue with him, but found she couldn't. She just sat there, still staring. "What are we going to do?" she asked finally.

He twisted his head just a little, looking at her sideways. "Fight back, of course." His smile grew wicked, and he held out a hand to her. She put hers in it and his fingers closed over hers. "You're with me?"

She squeezed back. "Absolutely."

"That's my Granger. Now go to class before you're late, and help me think of something clever, right?" He released her hand.

It was only later that she realized he'd called her 'my Granger,' and had given his confidences to her, not to Cho, had asked for her help, not Cho's. Cho might be his girlfriend, but she, Hermione Jean Granger, was his partner-in-crime. She could live with that; partnerships lasted longer. She wouldn't let him down.

Later, in Defense Against the Dark Arts, it was the memory of his trust that -- a page into the first chapter of Slinkhard's awful (and useless) _Defensive Magical Theory_ -- made her shut the book and raise her hand into the air, waiting for Umbridge to recognize her.

_Fight back_, he'd said. She smiled to herself as she watched Umbridge notice, then decide to ignore, her hand. She was her Head Boy's faithful prefect. If he wanted her to fight back, she would.

* * *

**Endnotes:** Obviously, sections of this chapter are a real blend of Book 5 dialogue and original material, although I will admit to one deliberate change from the book to here: Hermione's use of 'Ronald.' That reflects her movie dialogue, of course, not the book. Some people hate that usage; I like it. (shrug) It feels very Hermione to me. Also, I thought it important to reproduce the Sorting Hat's song in full.

**On Dumbledore's age:** When Finding Himself was first written, the birthyear given for Dumbledore on the Lexicon was 1841. After Book 7 was released, that had to be changed to 1881 because JKR revised his age. Therefore, his age in this novel reflects the original birthyear; it's not that I can't properly add and subtract. ;


	10. Much Ado About Umbridge

By midafternoon, the pain was back in Cedric's lower body and he took another dose of the stronger Abdoleo that Madam Pomfrey had brought that morning, then went to sleep off the worst of it. A firm knock on his door woke him, and he sat up, dazed, running a hand through his greasy hair. He really needed a bath, and hoped this wasn't Cho.

"Come in," he called because getting out of bed was a tedious process.

His visitor wasn't Cho. The door opened to reveal a scowling Harry Potter. Puzzled by the boy's expression and still feeling as if he were swimming up to consciousness through cloudy water, he said, "You don't look happy about something."

"Did I wake you?"

"Yeah, but it's all right. I shouldn't sleep much more today or I won't sleep tonight. Come in. What time is it?"

Harry entered and shut the door, coming through the sitting room until he stood in the doorway to Cedric's bedroom. He glanced at his watch as Cedric ran a hand over his face and tried to get his bearings. "It's half past three," Harry said.

"Isn't that early to be out of class?"

"I got thrown out."

"_What?" _That woke Cedric up and he dropped his hand to stare at Harry. "Thrown out? How'd you manage that on the first _day_?"

Harry paced around like a caged panther. "We can't all be model students and Head Boy."

Cedric decided to ignore that. Instead, he waited. Finally Harry stopped the pacing and practically shouted, "Bugger Umbridge!" Then he glared defiantly at Cedric.

"Am I supposed to tell you to wash your mouth out with soap?"

Harry continued to glare. "You're really frustrating, you know that?"

"I am?"

"Why don't you get angry about things?" Harry practically shouted.

Unsure if it were Harry not making sense or if he were still too drugged to find the sense, Cedric rubbed his face again. "I'm really not following you. What'd I do that's got you so mad at me?"

"I'm not angry with you," Harry said, "I'm just angry," and he sank down atop Cedric's trunk to stare almost blindly at the wardrobe and Esiban's cage beside it. The raccoon was scratching to get out. "Is he in that cage for a reason?"

"He's a raccoon, Harry. He gets into everything if I leave him loose when I'm completely out of it. You can let him free now, though, if you want."

Rising, Harry went over to squat down by the cage, tugging at the wire door. "It's stuck."

"Oh, sorry. Forgot. You've got to Unstick it. Otherwise he can get it open."

Harry pulled his wand out and muttered the charm, then raised the door to let Esiban escape. First, the animal greeted Harry, nose to nose, then leapt onto the bed, scolding Cedric in chitters. "I think he likes you," Cedric observed. "Right now, I'm not his favorite person."

Harry was watching Esiban crawl all over Cedric's lap. "Doesn't look that way to me."

"So tell me what happened to get you thrown out? I'm assuming it was Umbridge's class?"

"Yeah." Harry stood and walked back to sit on Cedric's trunk once more. "We're not doing anything in there. She's got us _reading _-- says we're not to do any spells until our OWLs. If we've got the theory, we can do the spells, she says."

Cedric, who'd been making up with Esiban by stroking his ears, jerked his head around. "You're not _serious_?"

"Completely. She wrote out these 'course objectives' on the board, or whatever she called them -- thinks we need to get back to basics or some lot of rubbish. When Hermione and Dean and Parvati challenged her, she called us liars -- you and me. And Dumbledore. And I got upset, and --"

"Wait," Cedric said, raising a hand. His brain was keeping up only slowly. "Hold on a minute. Tell me _exactly_ what happened in class, from the beginning, right?"

So Harry did, from Hermione's initial challenge to Umbridge's increasing irritation at student questions, and finishing with Harry's final outburst after the woman's claims about Cedric's 'accident.'

Cedric wanted to drop his head into his hands and howl in frustration. "When I said 'fight back' that wasn't what I meant," he muttered.

"What are you on about?" Harry asked.

Cedric just raised his head again and shook it. This was his fault. He'd told Hermione to resist -- he just hadn't thought she'd take him so literally, or start so soon. "Nothing," he said.

"You think I was stupid, or something?" Harry asked now, voice tense.

"Umbridge was baiting you, Harry. The same as Fudge baited me at the trial. I can hardly criticize you for biting. I blew my top, too. Just --" He made a motion with his hand. "Don't let her string you along, all right? You do that, and you do what she wants. You're playing her game."

"Easy for you to say." Harry was still angry.

"I know," Cedric replied. He wasn't going to let Harry bait him, either. "I know it is. We'll see if I can keep my cool tomorrow; I've got her then. At least I've some idea now of what game she's playing."

"You think she did that on purpose?"

"I think she knows how to take advantage of a situation, yes. Like I told Hermione, Harry -- this is a war with three fronts. The Ministry is one of them, not just Voldemort. Don't underestimate Umbridge. Not taking her seriously is what she's hoping we'll do. Better to let her underestimate _us_."

"So we just let her do all that? And when were you talking to Hermione?"

"At lunch. As for Umbridge lying -- let it be water off a duck's back. Same as with _The Daily Prophet_ this summer. Just grin and bear it, Harry. It's the only way."

Harry leapt to his feet again. "You just don't get it, Cedric! Nobody's staring at you like you're cracked! Nobody's calling you a liar! They applaud you! You get to be Head Boy! You get the girlfriend! Nobody mutters about you or stares at you in the hallway --"

Abruptly, he stopped, as if just realizing what he'd said. Cedric -- who was struggling to keep a reign on his own temper and glad for once of the drugs -- asked, "They don't stare at me in the hall? At least you don't _clatter_ when you walk."

Harry turned a brilliant scarlet to match his House colors. "Sorry."

Cedric just shook his head, swallowing and counting to three before going on, "I'm sorry they're talking about you. It's not fair. And I'm sorry Umbridge went after you your first day. If it makes you feel any better, I'm pretty certain I'm next on her list. But the one she's really after is Dumbledore, you know."

"You think that's why she's here?"

"I'd stake my broom on it." Not that his broom did him any good, currently. "We're only her means to an end, you and me. Dumbledore's the one the Ministry sees as a threat."

"You just -- you seem so calm. I don't know how you do it. Everything that's happened to you . . . you should hate me."

"Stop it," Cedric said. "We already had this conversation; I'm not going to repeat it constantly. I'm _very_ angry -- but not at you. Or not about what happened in the maze, anyway. Now as for letting Hermione take your notes in History of Magic, that's a different matter. Take your own notes from now on, Harry. It's not fair to Hermione."

Harry's head jerked up. "How d'you know about that?"

"Hermione told me."

"Oh, yeah? She tells you everything now? And what was she doing in your room at lunch anyway? I thought you were seeing _Cho_?"

The kid was still teetering on the edge, and Cedric should have known better than to bring up History of Magic. More evidence of the pain potion not letting him think straight. "She just brought me lunch. And I am seeing Cho. Did Hermione seeing Viktor Krum stop _her_ from talking to _you_?"

Hands shoved in his pockets, Harry glared from where he stood near the door. "I knew her first."

"So? I can only be friends with people I knew before I met Cho? That means I can't talk to you either."

"I'm a boy."

"And?"

"You're being thick, Ced."

"I'm trying to make a point."

"And missing the point, too, on purpose! It's _not_ the same and you know it." Harry glared. "I've seen how you look at Hermione. It's not fair to Cho."

Cedric opened his mouth to snap back, but bit his tongue, replying coldly instead, "Cho wrote to me all summer. Every other day. Faithfully. She's clever and sweet and good-hearted, and if you think I'd simply throw her aside . . . " He trailed off because, in fact, he _had_ been trying to think of a way to get out of this relationship gracefully ever since the train. "I'm not that much of a bastard." The situation with Cho was none of Harry's business, even if Harry did like her.

Harry must have realized he'd overstepped himself because he shuffled his feet and, hands still in pockets, glanced up once, then down again. "Can you still fly?"

Caught completely off guard, Cedric ran a hand through his hair again and looked away. "No. No, I can't."

Harry just nodded. "I was afraid of that. Listen -- Ron and Hermione told me what Malfoy said to you in the prefects' carriage on the train, about Quidditch. We, uh, sort of had an idea."

If Cedric's mind had been working at its normal speed, he might have formed a coherent response. As it was, he just stared back blankly. When he didn't reply, Harry went on, "I talked to Madam Hooch last night after supper -- just to be sure it's not against the rules or something."

"What's not against the rules?"

"You staying Captain."

"Harry, I can't _fly_."

"I know. But she said there isn't any rule that the Captain has to be _on_ the team. It's just . . . how it's always been done here. So you can stay Captain if you want. You'll just have to find a new Seeker. You can, um, coach."

Cedric frowned and scratched the back of his neck, not at all sure what he was feeling. "I don't --" He stopped. "First, thank you for thinking to ask in the first place."

"But you don't want to do it."

Cedric looked up, afraid Harry was going to get angry again, but he didn't seem upset. "I'm not sure if I do," Cedric replied. "It's not -- It's not _Quidditch _that really interests me," he admitted after a moment. "I mean I enjoy it, keep up with scores, have a favorite team. Going to the World Cup was . . . amazing." He smiled and got an answering grin from Harry. Then he paused again. "It's the _flying_," he said finally, swallowing as he recalled how it had felt to sit on the grass in the field behind his house, useless broom in hand, knowing he'd never sit it again. "I don't know that I could go out there and coach, watch them fly and not be able to do it myself. Maybe that's selfish of me --"

"It's not selfish," Harry interrupted. "I just . . . didn't know if you might want to stay Captain."

"I really do _appreciate_ you asking --"

"You don't have to do it because I asked, Ced. It just seemed like everything got taken away from you."

"You pointed out earlier that I'm Head Boy," Cedric said, smiling.

Harry ducked his chin. "Yeah, well, I know that's work. You didn't sound exactly gloating about it."

"It is work. And perhaps . . . it's not such a bad thing not to be Captain this year. I doubt I could do right by it. I've got enough on my plate as it is. But I do thank you, Harry."

Harry just nodded. "I reckon I should go to dinner."

"Yeah, I reckon you should." Harry turned to leave and Cedric called, "Hey, Harry." Harry turned back. "Try not to let what they're saying get to you. I know it's hard, but we'll find a better way to fight them than you getting detentions, all right?" The words came out more trite than Cedric had meant them, and scuffing his shoe again, Harry just shrugged one shoulder and headed out.

Cedric lay back on the bed, Esiban curled on his chest, dozing. He wished his mind was clear enough to formulate a plan, but one thing was very clear**:** he'd better come up with something more subtle than a class mutiny before half the fifth years wound up in detention. Or worse.

"Granger, you little nitwit," he muttered to himself, but not with real heat. While she might recognize subtle, she wasn't very adept at reproducing it. And really, he liked her that way.

He fell asleep in the midst of his pondering and didn't wake fully even when Peter and Cho arrived upstairs after dinner with a plate. Peter puttered around his bedroom, feeding the raccoon while Cho helped him sit up to take his medicine, ruffling his hair. "Thanks," he whispered to her, "you're sweet. Sorry I was such a bastard this morning." He still smarted from Harry's words to him earlier.

"You're flying rather high," she told him in her soft burr, amused. "But I accept the apology." She kissed his nose.

"I don't think you're up to eating dinner, but I'm leaving the juice," Peter told him. "You go back to sleep, mate. Ed'll be by in the morning."

"He doesn't have to --"

"Shut it." And Peter left, followed out by Cho. Cedric rolled onto his side and slept again.

* * *

Dinner was awful. First, Hermione felt badly about Harry's detention. She really hadn't intended _that_ result. After Umbridge had sent Harry out of the classroom, all resistance had drained from the rest them, even she, Dean, Parvati, and Ron, and no one had objected when Umbridge had given them that sickening smile. "You will now return to reading chapter one, 'Basics for Beginners.' Unless anybody else would like to join Mr. Potter in detention?" At least Hermione could say she hadn't opened her book, and Umbridge hadn't challenged her about it. But Hermione couldn't help feeling Umbridge had got what she'd been after all along, and she, Hermione, had helped to bring it about.

So much for fighting back.

Second, there were the whispers. Harry had taken a seat silently between her and Ron. All around them, she could hear people talking, "He says he saw Cedric Diggory cursed by Lucius Malfoy . . . " "He reckons he dueled with You Know Who . . . " "Come off it . . . " "He says Dumbledore fought You Know Who, too . . . " "Who does he think he's kidding?" "Well, Cedric did get cursed . . . " "We don't know what happened to Cedric. Maybe he did have an accident." "True. Being attacked by Death Eaters sounds a lot better than accidentally cursing yourself, or something."

Eyes kept sliding in Harry's direction, as if hoping Harry might respond, but Harry ignored them. The best that could be said of it all was how Hufflepuff table had dug themselves in like their namesake, the badger. They glared out at the other students, and once, Hermione heard the seventh year Ed say -- loudly -- _"Some _people might want to think twice before they imply that Ced's making things up!" There were claps and calls of 'Yeah,' from the rest of the Hufflepuffs, but across the hall at the Slytherin table, the response was derisive laughter. Hermione could see Cho sitting among her Ravenclaw friends, jaw clenched, close to tears or a temper tantrum -- but the rest of Ravenclaw didn't appear as sympathetic.

Frustrated, Hermione wanted to stand up and shout in defense of Harry, too, but felt the same sense of pointlessness that had dogged her since class. What would shouting prove? People would just laugh at her, too.

And Cedric thought he could _unite_ the Houses?

"What I don't get," Harry snarled as he put his knife and fork down, "is why they all believed the story two months ago when Dumbledore told them . . . "

"The thing is, Harry, I'm not sure they did," Hermione replied. And her frustration finally boiled over. Slamming down her own knife and fork, she got up. "Let's get out of here." She marched off, aware that people were watching them, and that their departure could be interpreted as a retreat, but she just couldn't take it any more, and neither, she thought, could Harry.

When they'd reached the first floor landing, Harry asked, "What d'you mean, you're not sure they believed Dumbledore?" He sounded almost indignant.

"Look, you don't understand what it was like after it happened," Hermione told him quietly, looking over the railing into the main entranceway below. "First Cedric arrived back without you, yelling to get Dumbledore and shoving people around, then running back into the maze like he'd lost his mind. Then when you and Cedric came back the second time, he started screaming and clutching at his back. No one saw what happened to him except you. Cedric was in the infirmary, unconscious for days, and neither of you were at the final banquet. We just had Dumbledore's word for it that You Know Who had come back, fought you and wounded Cedric."

"Which is the truth!" Harry almost shouted. "He was there!"

Hermione put a hand to her forehead. "I know it's the truth, so will you please stop biting my head off? I'm not doubting you, or Cedric, or Dumbledore. My point is that before the truth could sink in, everyone went home for the summer, where they spent two months reading about how you're a nutcase, Dumbledore's going senile, and Cedric's father is suddenly acting outside his authority. It didn't do a lot to support your stories."

"The Ministry agreed last summer there were Death Eaters, at least!" Harry protested.

"The Ministry said it was _Barty Crouch_ and a friend or two, and while yes, he's a Death Eater, he's also right around the bend, and that's how the Ministry is describing it: _Mad_ Barty Crouch, not Death Eater Barty Crouch. And the fact he was here at Hogwarts masquerading as Moody for almost the whole year doesn't help Dumbledore's case. There've been accusations of a coverup _here_ -- not at the Ministry -- and that this whole story was concocted to hide Dumbledore's incompetence."

"That's absurd!" Harry shouted again.

"No, it isn't," Hermione replied sadly. "Think about how it looks from the outside. Dumbledore had a convicted Death Eater on staff and was fooled by his disguise for months, despite the fact he was supposed to be good friends with the man Crouch was imitating. Then that same Death Eater hijacked the Triwizard Tournament, put one Champion under an Imperius Curse, and kidnapped two others right under Dumbledore's nose -- almost killed you both. That doesn't look good for Dumbledore."

"And you believe he's at fault?" Harry's question was cold.

"No," Hermione lied. Truth was, she did wonder how Crouch had been able to fool even Dumbledore. The rest of them hadn't known Mad-Eye Moody well enough, but Dumbledore had. Hermione could only suppose Dumbledore had been too distracted by the Tournament and concern for Harry to notice oddities. No one was infallible, even Dumbledore. "I'm just telling you how things look to people on the outside." And turning, she headed up the stairs again. It had been the worst first day back ever, and she wondered how she'd survive the year. She'd never felt this worn down.

So when they returned only to find Fred, George and Lee Jordan experimenting on first years with joke-shop sweets, Hermione completely lost her temper. Here, finally, was something she could confront -- and put an end to. And when Fred and George taunted her about how she'd make them stop, she pulled out the one deadly weapon in her arsenal. "I will write to your mother."

"You wouldn't," George replied with a look caught between pure horror and plain disbelief. Hermione wasn't sure if she'd just gone several points up or several points down in the twins' estimation.

"Oh, yes, I would," she replied.

But that confrontation was the last straw, and she couldn't even begin to concentrate on her studies. "I'm going to bed," she told Harry and Ron, opening her bag to retrieve the knitted hats she'd so carefully made that summer. She knew they weren't terribly good hats, but that didn't matter. Taking them over near the fireplace, she set them on a table and camouflaged them with parchment and an abandoned quill. There, that would do.

Behind her, Ron asked, "What in the name of Merlin are you doing?"

"They're hats for house-elves," She replied. "I did them over the summer. I'm a really slow knitter without magic, but now I'm back at school I should be able to make lots more."

"You're leaving out hats for the house-elves?" Ron asked. "And you're covering them up with rubbish first?"

"Yes." Hermione swung her bag onto her back. She knew it was a bit deceptive --

"That's not on!" Ron snapped. "You're trying to trick them into picking up the hats. You're setting them free when they might not want to be free."

Hermione's mouth dropped open. "Of course they want to be free! Don't you dare touch those hats, Ron!" And she stomped off. How could he be so thick-witted and archaic? They might write with quills and get light from lamps, but it was still almost the Twenty-First Century. There was simply no good argument anywhere to support _slavery_, and she couldn't understand why he didn't see that when he didn't subscribe to the ridiculous biases she'd found in other pureblood wizards.

She'd have to talk to Cedric. Surely _he_ would understand and agree with her; after all, he'd been the first person she'd ever heard give a considered explanation for why he didn't believe in blood purity, rather than just dismiss it out of hand or react defensively (however reassuring the emotional support of her friends might be). He was interested in her life as a Muggle, too, and not as a novelty. He wasn't prejudiced. Maybe together they could talk sense into Ron.

* * *

Cedric woke the next morning at ten to five. His sleep patterns were completely upset and when he realized what time it was, he just flopped back down and considered trying to sleep more, except his back and shoulders were aching from spending so much time in bed, he was very hungry, and he needed to piss. He also felt grimy after not washing for two days, and there was little he liked less than that feeling.

Sitting up again, he gathered his braces and put them on, snapping the locks in place and feeling the metal come alive, molding to his muscles and joints. Then he took his crutches out of the little bowl in which he kept them beside his bed and expanded them. Crossing to the wardrobe, he fetched fresh clothes and put them in the bag he used to carry things about, then went into the bathroom to use the toilet, brush his teeth and shave -- and ditch his dirty clothes. However odd he felt lurching about in the nude except for the braces, it was easier to undress here where he could sit down. He might've put on a robe, but what was the point? It wasn't as if he had to go through hallways. Bag shouldered again, he tried the door into the prefects' bathroom. Unsurprisingly, it was open. At this hour, he doubted anybody else would be competing for it -- which was a good thing since this could take a while.

Entering, he muttered a spell that lit the candled chandelier, then glanced around and fetched a towel from the corner table before making his way to the gigantic marble bath with its jeweled taps in the middle of the room. After two years as a prefect, he knew which taps he preferred, but there was a new problem. They were low, near to the bath's surface, and leaning down to start them wasn't easy. He hadn't thought to bring his wand, either. Frustrated, he lowered himself onto the top step leading down into the pool, one hand gripping a crutch, the other the marble bannister, second crutch dangling from his wrist. "I am so effing tired of this," he said to no one in particular. And it had been only two months. He faced these struggles for the rest of his life. Although normally despising self-pity, that morning he felt near to tears.

In the wall high above him, the stained-glass mermaid dozed on her rock. It was so early, there was no sign yet of sunrise through the colored window.

Sighing, he leaned over and touched a tap -- whichever was closest with a scent he didn't absolutely hate. Normally, it didn't take the pool as long to fill as one might think, given its size, but with Cedric able to reach only a handful of taps without his wand, he had to wait a while. He watched the water climb up the white marble sides, over his toes and legs and the steel braces. He'd been assured they wouldn't rust. He could probably leave them on, but they'd weigh him down, so he unfastened them and set them on the pool edge where he could get to them when he was finished. From his bag, he took shampoo and soap and set them within reach. Then he set his crutches beside the braces, not bothering to collapse them. When the water reached his waist on the second step down, he noticed he didn't feel quite so heavy -- he hadn't anticipated that, although perhaps he should have, and he moved down another step until the water lapped at his chest. Experimentally, he pushed up with his legs.

And lifted himself.

It took him so by surprise, he actually yelped aloud. He tried it again. The damaged legs that couldn't support him on land nonetheless had enough strength to raise his weight in the water.

Water which was in danger of overflowing. Cedric had been so astonished by this newfound ability, he'd forgotten how close the pool was to full, and now had to scramble to turn the taps off. Then he pushed away from the stairs, arms moving in a breast stroke. He could still kick, if not so powerfully. Moving out into the middle of the bath, he righted himself and put his feet down.

He was standing. Shaky, but standing.

He let out a bark of laughter.

In the water, he could move again with something approaching normality. He might not be able to walk, but he could _swim_.

Still grinning, he let himself sink beneath the surface and twisted around beneath it, using his arms to pull himself forward, shoulders and chest much stronger now, his legs kicking like an otter. When he broke the surface, he laughed once more. If being next to the prefects' bath didn't make up for losing the Sett, it had turned out to be more than a consolation prize.

He spent over an hour in the pool and got out finally only because the bubbles had faded and the water had grown tepid. Emerging back onto the land, his limbs felt leaden again, but he was clean, he'd had a good workout, and he wouldn't forget there was one place in the castle he could be free of the bloody crutches.

His excellent mood followed him down to breakfast, where he found Cho waiting for him. "You look chirpy," she said.

"I slept well and I had a swim before breakfast. I'm ready to take on the world," he said expansively.

"A swim? Are you still off your face?" She was giggling, probably at the silly grin he wore.

"Prefects' bath. And no, I am not high. I am Head Boy, I have a reputation to maintain."

Rolling her eyes at him, she opened the Great Hall doors. "Let's start with breakfast, all right, before you march off to conquer all Asia like Alexander."

They sat together at the Hufflepuff table. At breakfast, House lines weren't so firmly drawn and no one objected to the Ravenclaw in their midst. Ed just passed her the Marmite and asked what NEWTs she'd decided on. Cedric filled his plate with eggs and bacon and toast and felt rather pleased with himself, even optimistic. Perhaps he and Cho could work it out after all, and when he left for his first class, he kissed her quickly on the mouth, making her smile. It was only when he turned that he saw Hermione watching him from the Gryffindor table. Their eyes met, then hers dropped, and he felt guilty for no good reason at all. Cho was his girlfriend; Hermione wasn't. He'd never pretended it was otherwise, nor had Granger ever acted as if she expected more.

None of that changed the fact his heart was beating far too fast just at seeing her, and as comfortable as Cho was, she was _comfortable_ only. He couldn't ever remember her stirring this . . . insanity in him, even in the wake of the Yule Ball when they'd both decided there might be more to them than a dance and a pleasant evening. Exiting the Great Hall, headed for Dark Arts, he was a bit startled when he heard feet patter behind and turned, thinking it would be Cho. It was Granger, instead. A bit out of breath, she stopped in front of him. "Can I talk to you later? About house-elves?"

He blinked. House-elves? "All right," he said.

As they stood there, Draco Malfoy swept past with his entourage, eying them curiously. "Correcting his colors again, Granger?" Malfoy asked.

Cedric ignored him until he was out of earshot, then said only, "Pathetic."

Hermione giggled slightly and her head came up. "So -- house-elves. Meet in the library after class?"

He started to agree, then remembered. "No, can't. Sorry. I have a special class with Snape." And he'd need to talk to McGonagall, too, since he'd missed his special lesson with her yesterday. "This evening after supper maybe?"

"All right." She hesitated, looking down at her shoes, then blurted out, "What about Cho?"

"What about her? She has homework, the same as me, but I have some time before I have to go back to my office. I assume you checked in yesterday evening with Violet? Sorry I wasn't around."

She shrugged. "I was so tired, I almost forgot, actually. Mary had to remind me."

"So I'll see you then. Have to go to class now -- takes me a bit longer."

"Oh, right. Sorry." She blushed. "What class?"

"Defense Against the Dark Arts."

"Be careful with Umbridge, Cedric."

"I heard from Harry yesterday. We'll talk about that, too, later."

Her face had gone bright red. "I guess the 'fight back' didn't go so well."

He smiled at her. "I was speaking more _figuratively_ when I said that."

She sniffed. "It didn't sound like it."

"Apparently not." Turning he made his way down the hall.

Behind him, he heard her call, "Next time, be a bit more clear, then!"

"Prickly, aren't you?" he called back without turning as he made his way to the hidden lift that would take him to the first floor. By the time he reached the classroom, half the students were already there. Talking to Granger had slowed him up, but Peter had saved him a seat in the back on the outside, where he could prop his crutches against a cabinet full of skulls. There were four seats to each side of the main aisle in desk pairs of two. He and his denmates usually took a row to themselves, near, if not at, the back -- although Ed hadn't managed to come up to scratch enough in his Dark Arts OWL to continue to NEWT. It was just Cedric, Peter and Scott. Cedric liked the back because he preferred to watch, not talk. "The best students," Remus Lupin had observed to him once two years ago, "are often found in the front rows, or the last." Remembering that made Cedric smile now, and he thought of the little black journal Lupin had given him. He hadn't actually made use of it yet.

Umbridge had arrived, looking frightful in her dark robes, frilly cardigan and a ridiculous blue bow atop her hair. Beside him, Peter muttered, "Merlin, she's ugly as sin. Ought to be a fine for that."

Cedric snorted. "It's not her looks I'm worried about, mate. Whatever she says today, keep your nose low and don't argue, right?"

Peter shot him a curious glance. "You afraid she's going to go after you like she did after Potter?"

"Dunno. But I prefer to play on my terms, not hers. And if she comes after me, I want it to be obvious that's what she's doing, right?"

Peter just eyed him a minute. "You're awfully Slytherin for a Hufflepuff sometimes, Ced."

Cedric smiled. "I had a good teacher."

Umbridge was hemming to get their attention. "Good morning, ladies and gentlemen." Her voice was saccharin.

Cedric, Peter and Scott shared a glance but didn't reply. Neither did anyone else and Umbridge's false smile soured. "Manners must have been sorely neglected at Hogwarts if even my seventh years don't know how to respond politely to a greeting. When I say good morning to you, you customarily return the greeting: good morning, Professor Umbridge. So -- again? Good morning, class."

"Good morning, Professor Umbridge," the rest of them replied. Under his breath, Peter muttered, "Can't believe I just said that." Cedric nudged him silent.

"Now," Umbridge clapped her hands together. "Let's get started, shall we? I'm absolutely delighted to be instructing you in your final year -- bringing a bit of, shall we say, _order_ back to what's been a highly irregular class. We'll be returning to basics, the theory you should have had in year one but apparently didn't."

Near the front, Roger Davies raised his hand. "How's that going to help on the _tests_?" He seemed virtually panicked. "We've got NEWTs!"

"No, please," Cedric muttered, rubbing his eyes.

Umbridge simpered. "And you are?"

"Roger Davies."

"Ah, Mr. Davies, of Ravenclaw, yes? Naturally you'd be concerned about your exams. I'm sure you're a very good student -- Ravenclaws usually are."

That got shifts and mutters from the Hufflepuff half of the class, but Cedric remained still.

"I assure you that studying theory is the most important part. Without a full grasp of theory, spellcasting is rather dangerous -- don't you agree?"

"Well, yes, but --"

"In this classroom -- unlike what I understand has been done in the past -- you will not be facing any dark creatures, nor exposed to any _illegal_ spells. You are perfectly safe. Therefore the theory, Mr. Davies, is where we shall concentrate."

_She's full of shite, isn't she? _Scott had scribbled on a bit of parchment, passing it over to Peter and Cedric. Peter stifled a giggle and Cedric bit his tongue.

Perhaps expecting just such covert rebellion -- or watching Cedric's corner like a hawk -- Umbridge now swept down the central aisle towards them. "Is there a problem here, gentlemen?"

Peter and Scott shook their heads. Cedric just watched her. She held out a hand to Peter. "I believe I saw a scrap of parchment! Hand it over. There will be no note-passing in my class!"

Peter slipped Cedric the parchment under the table and raised empty hands as Cedric Vanished it. He was best at silent spells. "Honestly -- nothing," Peter said. "See?"

"Stand up! All three of you!"

Peter and Scott complied, both glancing at Cedric with slightly horrified expressions.

He decided to make a show of it. Reaching back, he snagged his crutches, put them on, then stood -- slowly. Umbridge watched him through narrow eyes, as if knowing exactly what he was doing. Then she edged between their desks and the ones in front, studying the three of them and the floor beneath, looking for the note. "Turn out your pockets!"

Sighing, they did so. Scott had gum and a pocketknife, Peter had nothing besides his wand, and Cedric had his flask of Abdoleo and a small bag of sweets he tended to keep handy for Esiban. Umbridge swooped down on the flask. "What is this! You've brought _alcohol_ into class?"

Cedric resisted rolling his eyes. "It's my medicine," he explained.

She glared up at him. "Your medicine, what?" He blinked, unsure what she meant. "Your medicine, _what_? Manners, Mr. Diggory."

Oh, yes, she certainly knew who he was. He'd have to play this very carefully. "It's my medicine, _Professor Umbridge_."

Unscrewing the top, she sniffed at it. "Abdoleo."

"Yes, ma'am, that's right."

"Abdoleo is a pain potion -- a narcotic. A _drug_, Mr. Diggory. I do not allow drugs in my class!"

"It's _medicine_," he said again, quietly, and turned his head just slightly. "I do have a prescription for it. You may check with Madam Pomfrey, if you doubt me. The Abdoleo is necessary for me to function."

She sniffed and -- to Cedric's astonishment -- pocketed his flask. "I shall indeed investigate this! In the meantime, I can't imagine that you can't stand a little discomfort. Please sit down, gentlemen."

Peter's face was just short of furious. "You can't take that!" he said. "Ced needs that!"

"Shhh," Cedric hissed, probably fruitlessly as Scott looked on the edge of rebellion, as well.

Umbridge had turned back, the sickeningly sweet smile on her face. "I can, indeed, confiscate a narcotic substance brought into my classroom, until such time as I can verify that Mr. Diggory is permitted its use."

"You _know_ he is," Scott snarled. "You _know_ what happened to him --"

"I 'know' no such thing! And ten points from Hufflepuff, Mr. --?"

Scott set his jaw, but muttered, "Summers."

"Mr. Summers. Ten points for such poor manners." She let her eyes travel back to Cedric. "Your taste in friends is most questionable for a Head Boy, Mr. Diggory." Her eyes swept them again. "I shall be watching for notes, you three. Sit down."

And she returned to the head of the class.

They sat, Scott cursing under his breath. Peter just looked at Cedric with a worried expression. _I'm fine,_ Cedric wrote on the edge of his parchment. _Took some before I came in here. I'll see Pomfrey after class._

"Now that we've cleared up that bit of unpleasantness, please turn in your books to chapter one . . . "

Lips thin, Cedric did as she said. The best he could say for their first confrontation was that neither had come out the clear loser. She might have taken his Abdoleo, but it had been an empty gesture. He'd have it back before day's end. And, in fact, he did. It was in the middle of his very next class that Madam Pomfrey marched into Professor Flitwick's lecture hall with a, "Please excuse me, Filius." Everyone in Charms watched her make her way to Cedric's seat on the back row and slam down the silver flask of Abdoleo in front of him, along with a piece of parchment. "This is yours," she said. "And if anybody pretends to know medicine without a green robe again and attempts to confiscate it, please show_ that person_ my note." And turning, she stomped out.

Down below, Flitwick winked at Cedric and beside him, Peter was laughing. "Hufflepuff ten, Umbridge zero," Peter said softly.

"It's a long way from the end of the match," Cedric muttered back as he pocketed the flask.

At lunch, Cho came to sit with him again. "I heard Umbridge tried to take your medicine."

"What, is it all over school already?"

"I'm afraid so." She smiled slightly. "You were brilliant."

"I didn't _do_ anything."

"You were still brilliant, not losing your temper."

"Is that a critique of Harry?" Cedric asked softly.

"What? No, of course not!" She appeared startled. "I think he was very brave to stand up to her like that yesterday."

"So I'm brilliant for not standing up to her and Harry's brave for doing so?" He grinned.

She took it badly. "I wasn't making comparisons, Cedric. I don't know why you had to take it that way. Don't tell me you're jealous of _Harry_?" Her eyes narrowed. "I could say a few things about your sudden . . . friendship . . . with another Gryffindor, but _I'm_ trying not to be jealous!" And grabbing her plate, she got up from the bench to stalk away.

"Merlin's beard!" Cedric muttered, watching her go. "I was just kidding."

"Yeah, well, she has a point about the other Gryffindor," Scott said from across the table.

"What's that supposed to mean?" Cedric snapped.

Scott just looked at him. "Try counting how often Granger's name pops up in your conversations or letters." Scott looked back down at his plate. "Don't hear 'Cho' that much. Maybe you should decide which girl you want to go out with and cut the other loose?"

Eyes narrowed, Cedric said, "I find that amusing coming from the fellow with a harem following him down every hallway."

"Yeah, well, I like to keep my options open, me." He grinned abruptly. "You're more of a one-girl chap so two's a bit much for you." The grin fell off his face. "Pick one, Ced. You're not doing Cho any favors hanging onto her for pity when you really want the other one."

"Who said it was pity?" This was getting ridiculous. Why was his love life suddenly everyone else's business? "I've been with Cho for nine months."

"And maybe that's a few months too long?" Scott went back to his lunch. They didn't talk again.

It was only later that it occurred to Cedric to wonder if perhaps he should be jealous of Harry?

* * *

**  
Notes: **The prefects' bath is a combination of book and film -- mostly book, but I liked the stained-glass mermaid.

**Remember, if you're reading (and enjoying), please review**, so I have some idea of how many people ARE reading. Thank you to all of those who have. I try to answer all signed/logged in reviews. For those who left one un-logged in, please accept my thanks this way!


	11. SPEW

  
Even in a crowded room such as the Great Hall, Hermione's awareness of Cedric was preternatural. She could be talking to Harry or Ron, Ginny or Neville, but she always knew where Cedric was. Divided attention. She wondered if he suffered the same.

And it was because of her awareness that she knew it the minute Cho stormed off from the Hufflepuff table at lunch. Beside her, Harry noticed too, and attacked his Cornish pasties with renewed vigor, frowning. Yet she didn't think him unhappy, and when they left the hall, he even plucked up the courage to say, "Hi, Cho," as they passed where she now sat with friends at the Ravenclaw table.

"Hi, Harry," she replied with a smile that disappeared as she spotted Hermione behind him.

It was, Hermione thought, an odd feeling to be the 'other woman,' certainly not a position in which she'd ever expected to find herself. Other Women were slags, predators, lacking in moral fibre, all the things she despised. They were sexy and beautiful, not bookworms with fly-away hair. She wasn't the kind of girl to make the boys come undone, and if she might try to paint Cho as awful or undeserving of Cedric, she knew it wasn't true. There was nothing wrong with Cho, but Hermione couldn't meet the other girl's eyes as she slid past behind Harry. At least Cho didn't attempt to confront her, or say anything like, 'Stay away from Cedric.' Maybe Cho wasn't brave enough, or maybe she just didn't want to sound ridiculous, but whatever the reason, Hermione was grateful to be ignored.

Cedric caught her at dinner. She and Ron had come early to eat with Harry before his detention with Umbridge, so she was leaving the Great Hall as Cedric was coming in. He called to her and she left Ron with a word about going up to the library. Ron didn't protest; he seemed in a hurry to get somewhere himself, though he was dodgy about exactly where.

Walking over to Cedric, she asked, "How was Potions?"

"You mean how many times did Snape call me an idiot? I think . . . only twice today. That's better than average."

She smiled despite herself. "What are the special classes about?"

"He wants to teach me to make my own medicines. We're starting with Abdoleo; it's relatively simple, although neither of them is easy. I can already tell he's dubious as to whether I'll get the Restituo right. Frankly, so am I. There's a reason it has to be made by an apothecary."

"I heard what happened with Umbridge, by the way." She tipped her head. "_Were_ you actually passing notes in class?"

He laughed. "You're the first person to ask that. Everyone else wants to talk about her taking the potion. And yes, actually, Scott was. He's bloody lucky I'm good with Vanishing spells."

She eyed him. "Shame on you."

"What? You'd rather he got caught?"

"No, just -- I can't believe you were passing notes."

He seemed vastly amused and leaned in. "It was just a bit of fun, Granger. Lighten up."

She huffed at him; somehow, she'd expected better, but boys would be boys, apparently.

"Anyway, what I wanted to say is that we've got a House meeting after dinner in the common room." The humor slid off his face. "We need to choose a new Quidditch Captain. Hufflepuff elects; we don't appoint. So I won't be in the library till later."

"You're not staying Captain? Didn't Harry talk to you?"

"He talked to me. I don't want to do it. I can't _fly_. I just -- I can't watch them." And he turned abruptly, hobbling off. Hurting for him, she watched him go.

With Harry in detention and Ron off . . . somewhere, Hermione had the entire evening in the library to herself until Cedric showed up. He was in the wheelchair, and looked tired -- or perhaps simply sad. Rolling up to her table, he found the top too high for his chair and she watched him drop his book bag on it with a resounding thump, then motion out the wooden-backed chair across from hers and shift himself into it. He didn't need his wand to move the chair; a wave of his hand sufficed. Seventh years did begin working with wandless magic, but she suspected he'd been practicing some spells over the summer. "You're quite good at that," she said.

"What, getting out of the chair? Sort of have to be." He sounded short and irritable.

"No, I meant doing spells without a wand."

"Oh, uh -- thanks. It's not that hard, really, if it's something you use a lot." He unpacked his books. Although all she'd asked earlier was to talk about house-elves, he seemed to assume they'd study together, too. She wasn't sure if that was because he wanted to spend time with her, or because he _didn't_ want to spend time right now in the Hufflepuff common room, listening to whoever had taken his place talk about Quidditch. She could tell he wasn't in a good mood, frowning deeply as he sorted his books and got out his quill.

But then he looked up at her, face smoothed, and asked politely, "What did you want to ask me about house-elves? Do you have an assignment in History of Magic or something?"

"What? Oh, no." And reaching over, she retrieved the shoebox with her S.P.E.W. materials from the chair where she'd put it, placing it on the table in front of him. She handed him a badge. "This," she said, grinning. She felt a rush of excitement at having something to show him that might cheer him up.

His frown was back as he studied the badge. "What is this? _Spew? _Sounds like what you do after too much firewhiskey."

Used to Ron's jokes, she just rolled her eyes. "It's the Society for the Promotion of Elvish Welfare, you ninny."

"Never heard of it, and couldn't the person who started it have come up with a better acronym? 'Spew' sounds ridiculous."

Stung, she reminded herself that he'd just been through a difficult evening after a difficult day. "I'm who started it," she told him -- and had the satisfaction of seeing him blush. "It's all right. I didn't really think about how it sounded till I'd already made the buttons. Ron reminds me regularly."

Cedric snorted in amusement and set the button down on his blank parchment. "So -- what's the point of 'spew'?"

"S.P.E.W.," she corrected. "And that's what I wanted to talk to you about." Excitement back, she wiggled a little in her chair as she pulled out the notes she'd made and launched into her explanation of why she'd started the society, and what she hoped to accomplish. She talked about how horribly house-elves like Dobby, Winky, and Kreacher had been treated, and her conviction that most house-elves had been beaten down into accepting their low status, not protesting it. "It's the worse kind of Uncle Tomism."

"Uncle Tomism?" It was the first time Cedric had said anything. He'd just sat listening in that way he had.

"The term comes from a character in a book -- a Muggle book -- but it means anybody who plays a servile stereotype in order to avoid being punished for getting uppity, or to find favor with the people who enslave them. And it's what the house-elves are doing, Cedric. They play along for their own safety, or because they don't realize they're not less than us." And she went on with her explanation.

She talked for twenty minutes, and he listened, only having interrupted the one time. But she began to notice halfway through that he was only listening -- being polite, because Cedric didn't interrupt -- but he was frowning. It leeched away her excitement and set her on edge. Finally, she concluded, "So you see? That's why I started the society. It's _unjust_ how the elves are treated, and I want to put an end to it." But it was plaintive, not triumphant, and she sat there, hands gripped tightly, awaiting his response.

It didn't come immediately. Unlike Ron, or even Harry, he took his time before responding to things. Now, he leaned back in the seat and just studied her -- still frowning. Finally, he said, "Too bad you didn't think to actually _consult_ more than a handful of house-elves before launching your crusade."

The words were brutal, and delivered in a tone she'd never heard from him before. He wasn't making fun of her. It was far worse. He _disapproved_.

Crushed, she raised her chin and felt her hurt transform into righteous indignation. "So you think keeping house-elves is _acceptable_? You don't see anything _wrong_ with it? You think . . . you think they should be beaten and abused and _enslaved_ and --"

"Shut up, Granger, and let me talk now. You had your turn."

His voice was still hard and for a moment, her ire flipped to show the pained underside. "Why are you angry with me?" She couldn't believe her gentle Cedric would agree with the enslaving of house-elves.

Picking up the button, he tossed it back in her shoebox. "This is the most patronizing load of shit . . . " He trailed off, his voice practically shaking with rage and she began to realize he didn't just disapprove, he was _furious_. "Who gave you the right to decide what's best for the elves, or what their lives _ought_ to be like?" Her mouth fell open, and he leaned over the table, face full of thunder, gray eyes dark. "_You_ are not a house-elf. And near as I can tell, you've only talked at length to three house-elves in your life, one of them right off his sodding rocker. Damn splendid statistical sample you've got there, Granger. I thought _you_ were the math person?" He sat back again, long hands splayed flat on the tabletop, pale skin against dark wood.

"Instead of actually finding out what the house-elves might want," he continued, voice not raised, but not lowered, "you've condescendingly decided it for them. This is how they _ought_ to think, and if they don't, then what? They're just deluded? Did you pay _any_ attention to what that elf Winky said to you? You rattled it off to me, but I don't think you heard a word of it yourself. In one ear, out the other because it didn't fit your _preconceptions_. Instead you decided she was . . . Uncle Toming, or whatever you called it."

She sucked in breath. She could feel the sting of tears in her eyes. She couldn't believe what she was hearing. "How can you think _anyone_ would want to be treated like we treat the elves?"

"That's not the point!" he practically shouted, and drew glances from everyone around them. Leaning in, he said, "The point is you have no effing clue how they _want_ to be treated. You got some batty notion in your head and went off on a tear, pumped full of your own certainty. It's what we've done all over the world and it's bloody embarrassing. We march in somewhere, see a culture that's not like ours, decide they need tea and civilization, and impose it. We can't imagine that people in other places may not _want_ to live like us_._"

And a light went on in Hermione's head; she knew why he was outraged. She'd heard him say these same things, but not about elves. They'd been talking about the British in India, or the Americas, or Africa, or Australia. And she'd agreed with him. But he was letting it blind him now to the plight of the house-elves. "How can you be so . . . thick!" she exploded finally, although she kept her voice down. "I'm not talking about imposing British culture on someone else, Cedric. The house-elves _are_ British. Well, at least ours are. I'm talking about our enslavement of a whole group of people for our convenience! Do we pay them wages? Do we provide them with healthcare? They have no rights -- "

"You can't stop talking long enough to actually listen to somebody, can you, Granger? I listened to you. Then it was my turn but you're still _talking_." He was slamming his books back into his bag. "No wonder people around the world hate us. We never listen to anybody else!"

"I _am_ listening to you, but you're completely missing the point! I know what you're thinking. I know how you feel about the Ojibway, but you're reacting with a knee jerk --"

"And you're not?" He'd finished packing up and pulled his wheelchair around so he could get into it. "It's not about the Ojibway. Don't accuse me of special interest. It's about the larger problem -- it's about one group waltzing in to decide what's best for another without bothering to ask any questions first! You've magnanimously decided what house-elves should want after talking to _three_ of them! That is just so . . . it's beyond arrogant! I can't _stand_ that attitude." Now in his chair, he grabbed his book bag and set it in his lap. "If you really want to help the elves, Granger, go find out what _they_ want. _Listen _to them. Don't just talk."

And he rolled away.

Swept first by a sensation of heat, then of chill, Hermione sat, stunned. She wanted to cry. She wanted to leap up, follow him out, and scream at him for being pig-headed and irrational. It didn't help that everyone in their section of the library had seen (and heard) a good portion of their quarrel. People kept throwing her looks as she sat there, putting away her S.P.E.W. materials and trying to concentrate on her essay about moonstones for Snape. But the parchment just swam in front of her eyes and she realized she was dripping tears onto it. Spelling dry what she'd finished, she packed up, hands shaking. The shock was starting to pass and the aftermath setting in.

This wasn't like a fight with Ron, or Harry. With them, sniping and quarreling had been part of their relationship from the beginning and after four years, she knew they'd get over it eventually. Even Harry at his worst lately hadn't left her feeling this furious. And hurt. And humiliated. She and Cedric had never disagreed on anything -- not seriously. Disagreement had been a starting spot to find consensus. That was part of the problem. Cedric teased but he didn't quarrel, and Cedric _angry_ was a rare and frightening phenomenon because it meant something.

She just had no way to know what it meant -- feared he might never speak to her again.

* * *

Cedric went back to his office off the prefects' lounge because he hadn't been able to stay in the library another moment. He'd have to make do without the books he needed or get up early again, skip breakfast, and finish the work then. Yet concentrating on his Charms paper, or History of Magic, seemed impossible, and he threw his fifth aborted attempt across the room with frustrated curses. Fortunately, he was the only person around to hear.

If he'd thought yesterday had been bad, today had been worse, starting with that confrontation in Dark Arts. Then he'd quarreled with Cho, put up with Snape, and surrendered his captaincy. The fight with Granger had just been the last straw. For every small thing that had gone right (discovering he could still swim or getting his Abdoleo back from Umbridge), something worse had followed.

Bent over his desk, he pulled at his hair. The one person he might have gone to, the one he'd thought could really understand him, who liked him for him . . . she'd turned out to harbor an attitude that made his hackles rise.

It wasn't even her crazy S.P.E.W. itself. When she'd first started talking, he'd been honestly curious, if amused by the awful name she'd chosen. He'd seen people mistreat house-elves and didn't like it, and he'd been delighted to hear the Malfoys had lost theirs. Yet the more she'd talked, the more it had been like nails on a blackboard until he'd been so irritated, he'd mostly just waited for her to finish so he could --

What? Jump down her throat? That's what he'd done, and he knew it. If he hadn't already been upset, and tired after waking before dawn, he might have reacted less violently -- but he wasn't sure of that. There was little he hated more than the patronizing, 'we know what's best for you better than you do' busybody attitude she'd exhibited. He'd thought Hermione better than that.

That's what had hurt most -- why he'd become so angry. He felt as if he'd somehow misjudged her, seen only what he'd wanted to see. He'd been falling in love with somebody he'd made up in his own head.

At least Cho didn't decide how other people ought to live their lives.

He pulled out his flask of Abdoleo and took some, but not because his lower body hurt any worse than usual. He just wanted to feel numb. That probably wasn't a good thing, but he didn't care. His image of the perfect girl had imploded.

He was still there, trying valiantly to concentrate when the prefects turned up to give their evening report. Mary O'Dell reported for Gryffindor -- without Granger -- and he wasn't sure if that relieved him or upset him further.

Reports finished, he went up to his room, fed Esiban, and got ready for bed. The raccoon was waking from his daytime nap. Having a nocturnal pet meant he slept when Cedric was in class, but it also meant he was awake half the night threatening to get into things. At least in these new rooms, Cedric could be fairly certain there was no food stashed where Esiban might find it. In the Sett, he'd waged a constant battle to keep Esiban in his cage or to convince his Housemates to lock up any snacks or sweets. There'd been more than a few mornings he'd awoken to furious bellowing from somebody who'd discovered exactly how adept raccoons were at opening virtually anything that smelled like it might be edible.

In any case, he wanted another bath but the bathroom was occupied so he spent the time writing to his mother about Umbridge, then scribbling in the little black journal that Lupin had given him. If he couldn't talk to Hermione herself, he could at least talk to the blank page about her.

Finally the bathroom was empty and he escaped into the hot water, using the Bubblehead charm he'd learned for the Lake Task to sink beneath the surface and let himself drift in the water with his eyes shut until he ran out of air. It would have been more relaxing had he been able to stop going over and over the fight and every little thing they'd said, wondering if he'd fucked up or if she were off her rocker. But he couldn't get past her condescending attitude. Every time he thought about that, it just made him angrier.

When he finally returned to his room, he heard a rather pathetic hissing coming from the sitting room and rolled his wheelchair out there to find the raccoon swinging from the chandelier. He'd forgotten to put Esiban in his cage before going into the bathroom.

Putting his face in his hands, he just laughed, because it was better than crying. Eventually recovering enough to speak, he pulled his wand and said, "You dope -- how did you get _up_ there?" And he Levitated the animal down. It wasn't the first time Esiban had been Levitated somewhere and he hissed and chittered, but at least he was out of trouble (and the chandelier appeared undamaged). He shot off behind a sofa and Cedric left him be and went to bed.

The next morning, he overslept and so never made it to either the library or breakfast. Fortunately, Binns gave him an extension on his essay as he'd not actually been in class the first day. "Extenuating circumstances," Binns said. There were advantages to being a good student. As he didn't have Transfigurations, he spent the next period and half of lunch in the library, then ate quickly by himself before Care of Magical Creatures. Into NEWTs, his course load had dropped so he had spare periods for prep. Cho came to study with him after dinner, and they spent a pleasant two hours in the library, sharing books and toffee and playing footsie under the table until she accidentally kicked his brace and hurt her foot. "Sorry," he said.

"It's all right," she replied, rubbing her toes through her shoes.

Hermione picked that moment to come through the library door. Spotting him sitting with Cho, she turned and marched off in the opposite direction and he ignored her. Involved in working out a problem for astronomy, Cho didn't appear to notice, and the way her brows furrowed as she concentrated made him smile. When they were done for the evening, he set her on his lap in the wheelchair and raced her down the hallway while she squealed and laughed. The few minutes in the lift down to the ground floor they spent snogging, and when she left him in front of the prefects' lounge, she said, "You seem more like yourself."

He didn't know what that meant. He hadn't felt like himself since 24th June, but didn't say so. He just smiled and replied, "I'm glad. I'll see you tomorrow."

Hermione sent her evening rounds report through Mary O'Dell again. He was tempted to have O'Dell tell Granger to report for herself, but wasn't sure he really wanted to talk to her, either. As long as she was doing her job, did it matter how she chose to report? She could send him a parchment plane for all he cared.

* * *

After dinner every night that week, Hermione attacked her homework and her knitting of house-elf hats with a vengeance. Harry was in detention and Ron was sneaking off somewhere to do something that she wasn't sure she wanted to know about. After finding Cedric and Cho laughing in the library on Wednesday, she didn't go back there, not in the evenings anyway. She rearranged her own schedule to avoid being in the same place as Cedric at the same time -- not terribly difficult outside of meals as he was a seventh year. The worst of it was evening rounds, but Mary kindly agreed to take her reports, although not without an explanation. "What's up with that?"

"He just . . . rubs me up the wrong way," she replied.

Mary had tipped her head. "I wasn't sure if you two were friends or enemies -- after the train and the prefects meeting, I mean. Is he harassing you?"

"What? No, no. Nothing like that." She didn't want to talk about Cedric, just avoid him. Mary didn't ask anything else, and Hermione henceforth gave her rounds reports to her, or to Ron.

Once, Ron tried to get the problem out of her in his usual graceless way. "So what'd you and Diggory argue about?"

"Nothing. What makes you think we had an argument?"

"Uh -- because you head in the other direction as soon as you see him coming, and he looks grumpy half the time. Practically bit my head off last night because I was a little late with my rounds report."

"Why were you late? Violet said on the train that they want to go to bed too, remember? I'm sure that's all it was."

Ron dodged her question, looking a bit shifty. "Doesn't matter. And, well, he's turned out to be an all right bloke, supporting Harry and all. But, uh, heshouldbenicertoyou." And Ron shuffled off, hands deep in pockets. Hermione watched him go, wondering what that was about.

Harry was so distracted by his detentions and falling behind with homework that he didn't appear to notice she and Cedric weren't talking until Friday. A moment finally came when she couldn't turn around and go the other way when she saw him coming, so they passed each other in the hall, he on the crutches, she with her head down over her books. Ron was right; he did look grumpy. Harry greeted him and received a reply, but when he ignored Hermione, Harry stopped stock still, staring after him, then around to Hermione. Ron feigned interest in a painting of a dour old witch. "What was that about?" Harry demanded.

"Nothing."

"They're having some sort of quarrel," Ron put in without turning.

"We are not. We can't be having a quarrel since we're not _talking_." And she stalked off, leaving them behind. They had divination and she had arithmancy anyway.

It was Ginny who finally got the story out of her. Now that Ginny was seeing Michael Corner of Ravenclaw, she didn't spend as much time in the Gryffindor common room, and Hermione had barely seen her outside meals since Tuesday. But after dinner on Friday, they walked down to the Quidditch pitch together to watch Gryffindor Keeper tryouts. It was drizzling, and they sat under an umbrella, huddled against the rain. "So what happened with Cedric?" Ginny asked.

"Nothing," Hermione replied, stubborn.

Ginny sighed. "That's not just a lie, Hermione, it's a _pathetic_ lie. By all accounts, you've done nothing all week but study and knit --"

"Well, I've got loads of homework!"

"-- and whenever I've seen Cedric in the hallways, he's scowling. He never scowls. Well, he didn't used to scowl all the time, anyway. The only person who seems cheerful is Cho."

Hermione's snort wasn't even delicate. But after a moment of internal struggle, she broke down and told Ginny about her fight with Cedric on Tuesday, and everything he'd said. Ginny appeared more thoughtful than sympathetic, although she did put an arm around Hermione to hug her. "He wasn't very nice," she said finally. "But, you know, he might have a bit of a point."

"Not you too!"

"Hermione, it's not that I disagree with S.P.E.W., I just . . . um, maybe you really ought to talk to some house-elves, you know? It's not like there's a shortage of them at Hogwarts."

"I have talked to them!"

"You've talked to Dobby and Winky and Kreacher, and you have to admit, none of them's exactly an advertizement for house-elf society." She patted Hermione's shoulder under the poncho they shared beneath the umbrella. "Your heart's in the right place, however. Even Cedric should be able to see that! I don't know why he was so mean."

"He had a bit of a hard day, I think," she admitted grudgingly. "But he was still . . . " Her voice trailed off. Even thinking about it brought tears to her eyes, and she was glad of the rain to blame for her wet cheeks. "I thought he'd understand." Her lip was trembling now. "It's . . . it's something I want to _do_, Ginny -- help the house-elves. It's something worthwhile, you know? I just wanted him to understand."

"Of course it's worthwhile!" Ginny agreed, patting her arm again. "And there's no one better suited to it than you. But, well, perhaps you should consider some of what he suggested, even if he was a prat about it. It certainly wouldn't hurt to talk to the house-elves, would it? Then you'd have a much better idea of what needs to be changed, so they're happy. It's about elvish welfare, after all, right?"

Hermione nodded. Despite Ginny's sometimes-temper, the younger girl had a way of putting things so it didn't sound as if she were telling someone she was wrong -- even if she was. Sighing, Hermione rested her head on Ginny's shoulder and let her friend rock her. After a while, the tears came and Ginny still held on. "That's right," Ginny whispered softly. "Cry it out. You'll feel better."

And the funny thing was, she did. By the end of the tryouts, she was cheerful enough to congratulate Ron on making Keeper and really mean it. "I'm so proud of you!" she told him, which made him blush. "Harry will be, too."

"Thanks," Ron replied, head ducking.

A butterbeer, her general exhaustion, and Harry's news about Umbridge's touch on his arm causing his scar to burn drove further thoughts of Cedric right out of her head. "You're worried that You Know Who's controlling her like he controlled Quirrell?"

"Well, it's a possibility, isn't it?"

"I suppose so . . . " Hermione said without conviction. She had her doubts about Umbridge being under anybody's control but her own. Certainly Cedric hadn't thought so -- then again, what did Cedric know? "But I don't think he can be possessing her the way he possessed Qirrell, I mean, he's properly alive again now, isn't he, he's got his own body, he wouldn't need to share somebody else's. He could have her under the Imperius Curse, I suppose . . . "

Somehow, that didn't feel right, either. "But last year your scar hurt when nobody was touching you, and didn't Dumbledore say it had to do with what You Know Who was feeling at the time? I mean, maybe this hasn't got anything to do with Umbridge at all, maybe it's just coincidence it happened while you were with her?"

"She's evil. Twisted." And the look on Harry's face when he said that made Hermione shiver.

"She's horrible, yes," Hermione agreed. "But Harry . . . I think you ought to tell Dumbledore your scar hurt."

Harry's face grew stubborn. "I'm not bothering him with this. Like you just said, it's not a big deal. It's been hurting on and off all summer -- it was just a bit worse tonight, that's all -- "

"Harry, I'm sure Dumbledore would want to be bothered by this -- "

"Yeah, that's the only bit of me Dumbledore cares about, isn't it, my scar?

Hermione was shocked. "Don't say that! It's not true!" Harry hadn't seen how desperately frightened and angry Dumbledore had been the night Harry had been attacked by Dementors. Or how driven Dumbledore had acted earlier in June when Cedric had returned to tell them Harry was alone in the graveyard with You Know Who. There was little Hermione was more convinced of than that Dumbledore cared deeply about Harry's welfare.

"I think I'll write and tell Sirius about it, see what he thinks --"

"Harry! You can't put something like that in a letter!" How could he be so careless? "Don't you remember, Moody told us to be careful what we put in writing! We just can't guarantee owls aren't being intercepted anymore!"

"All right, all right, I won't tell him then! I'm going to bed. Tell Ron for me, will you?"

"Oh no, if you're going that means I can go without being rude too. I'm absolutely exhausted and I want to make some more hats tomorrow." They disappeared faster than she could keep up, and what would Cedric say to that? Obviously the elves were eager for freedom and he didn't know what he was talking about. She invited Harry to help her knit some, but he declined with excuses of homework that she knew weren't honest. Boys.

* * *

A pounding on his door woke Cedric much earlier on Saturday than he had to be up. "Cedric!" Cho's voice called from beyond. "It's me!"

What in the name of Merlin? "Wait a minute!" he called back, and got his braces on, then grabbed a robe and his crutches, and went to let her in. "Did something happen?"

She grabbed his upper arms. "I need your help! It's my mum's birthday and I completely forgot!"

"I'm sorry." He wasn't sure what else he was supposed to say.

She was pulling a large rock out of her pocket and held it up. "Can you do something with this? Make something pretty for me to send to her?"

"You want me to Transfigure a rock?"

"Aye -- into something pretty. Something crystal, perhaps? She likes crystal."

Cedric blinked, trying to wake up enough to think of something. "Wait a minute," he said, and went over to his desk, flipping through books. "Bring it here."

Leaving the door open, she hurried over to place the rock on the desk. He looked it over. There were bits of smoky quartz in it. Perhaps he could do something with that. Flipping pages until he found what he was looking for, he turned back to the rock. "Get me my wand, would you? I left it in the bedroom by my bed."

She dashed off to fetch it and brought it back. Pointing the wand at the rock, he muttered the spell -- a bit complicated since he wasn't making a single transfiguration but several at once, then watched with satisfaction as the rock became a Fabergé-style egg in gold, blue and brown, the brown formed of the dark quartz. Beside him, Cho gasped and then hugged him tightly. "You are so amazing! Thank you, thank you, thank you!" She pulled away and looked up at him. "How long's it going to last, though?"

He laughed. "It's permanent, don't worry. That's why I picked something mineral and of the same weight."

She hugged him again and gave him a sound kiss even though he hadn't brushed his teeth yet. "I love you!" she said, grabbing the egg and hurrying off.

He stood on the crutches with his mouth hanging open, absolutely gobsmacked. When the door shut, he sat down on the sofa. She'd been speaking figuratively, surely? He'd just done her a great favor; Transfiguration wasn't anything she particularly excelled at, and it took a bit out of a bloke to create something like that egg, too. Rubbing his face, he said to the air, "You don't love me. Please don't love me."

All week he'd sought comfort in Cho for his defaced dreams, wrapping her attention around him like a security blanket. But it _was_ only security, and that wasn't fair to her. Harry and Scott were right; Cho wasn't the girl he wanted. Maybe Granger wasn't, either, but that didn't make it honorable to stay with Cho. After nine months, people began to make assumptions, and he needed to stop going round the houses. He couldn't stay with Cho any longer because he _didn't_ love her and he wasn't going to; that had nothing to do with any other girl. Hermione coming into his life -- even if she'd now gone out of it -- had served only to wake him up. This was the time to end things, when it couldn't be construed as leaping into another relationship.

Esiban hopped up on his desk. "When did my life get so complicated?" he asked the raccoon, who simply chirped back at him. "Let's go for a swim, right?" It was what he'd taken to doing all week when stressed -- which meant he swam every day, sometimes twice. He'd never expected to turn into a fish, but if he couldn't fly anymore, or walk, or run, at least he could swim. Sometimes Esiban swam with him, but the raccoon usually preferred to sit on the poolside and watch, or wade on the shallow top step. One of the reasons Dumbledore hadn't taken Esiban for the Lake Task was because waking up in the middle of a very deep and cold loch could have panicked the raccoon into scratching Cedric badly -- not to mention all the other Champions had recovered people. It might have looked a bit odd for Cedric's 'treasure' to be small and furry all over.

After his bath, and steeling himself for the unpleasant, Cedric headed down to breakfast. He'd find Cho, they'd have a long walk, and a talk. He wasn't sure how gracefully he could do this, but he'd try. Unfortunately, Cho wasn't at breakfast when he arrived, and her absence mostly relieved him. Ed was there instead, dressed in Quidditch robes, and he wanted to talk about tryouts. "What do you mean you're not coming! I need your advice!"

"You'll do fine. You were elected for a reason."

"I was elected because you nominated me, mate."

"You'll do fine."

"I need you."

"No, you don't. If I'm there, the team'll defer to me. You're captain now. _Be _captain."

Comet 260 gripped in one hand, Ed watched him eat for a moment. "I still feel badly about this."

"You shouldn't. I can't do it; it's that simple. And you've been on the team longer than _me_."

"Never had your strategy, mate. Everyone knew that."

"Don't put yourself down so much, all right? It bothers me. You're a good flier, and a good player. The team needs you to believe in yourself. Now go out there and find a new Seeker and Keeper. I've got work to do and a catch-up lesson with McGonagall."

Ed left. He hadn't, Cedric noted, eaten anything. He was probably as nervous at running tryouts as the candidates were at auditioning, and perhaps Cedric should've gone for moral support but he just couldn't. In fact, he wondered if he'd be able to steel himself to watch a game at all this year.

While he was pondering that and pushing around the remains of his cornflakes, a shadow fell over him and he glanced up. It was the youngest Weasley -- the girl -- fists on hips, looking . . . not quite murderous, but not far off. "I would like a word with you, please." Despite the 'please' it wasn't a request and he was just a little amused. There weren't many fourth years prepared to tackle a seventh year like that (and unless he was much mistaken, the look on her face promised a Howler).

"All right," he said, putting his spoon down. He was finished anyway. He turned to face her.

"You've got an office, haven't you?"

"Yes, it's off the prefects' lounge --" She was gone before he finished, marching back up the aisle between the Hufflepuff and Gryffindor tables.

Rising, he followed behind more slowly. Ernie MacMillan leaned backwards into the aisle to stop him. "What was _that_ about, Ced?"

"I suppose I'll find out," he replied, and Ernie righted himself to let Cedric pass.

The girl was waiting in the prefects' lounge, her arms crossed, slouching in irritation. He crossed to his office and muttered the password. She followed him inside and practically slammed the door. "You are a prat!" she began, which took him aback a bit.

"You mind putting that in some kind of context?" Though he had a fair suspicion of what it might be.

She dropped her folded arms. "I know Hermione's house-elf theories are a bit dodgy, but Merlin's beard! Did you have to be so . . . nasty? She's a good person! She just wants to help them! If I didn't think you could probably block me, I'd hex you!"

She probably would. This was the dangerous Weasley -- not any of the boys. "Ginny, right?"

"Yes, Ginny." Her arms were crossed again and her blue eyes flashed. "And don't change the subject. We all thought you were her friend, but you hurt her something terrible about the one thing she really cares about! Maybe the twins are right about you and you're a just a spoiled pretty boy who's no better than Draco Malfoy in how he bullies people!"

"That's enough," Cedric snapped. No one called him a Malfoy. "I don't suppose it occurred to you that I might have a real objection to her ideas? That we might have a point of actual disagreement? That perhaps she made _me_ angry, too? That maybe she's not what I thought?"

The last came out bitter, and Ginny's head went up. "So what did you think she was? Some simpering cow like Cho Chang who'd follow you around and sing your praises even if she disagreed with you?"

He glared a moment. "First, don't insult my friends. If you're going to defend yours, I'll defend mine. Cho is clever and sweet-natured -- and you don't know her. Calling her a 'cow' is unfair and unkind."

The girl actually had the good grace to appear a bit sheepish.

"Second, the last thing I ever wanted from Hermione was simpering or praise-singing. She's not good at either one, and it's not how our friendship worked."

The fact he was talking about it in the past tense felt depressing.

"But no, I don't think she's the person I took her for. Not if she goes around deciding how others ought to think, and if they disagree, decides they're either prejudiced or too stupid to see her logic." All right, so she'd not actually accused him of either one, but he'd felt it implied. "I don't agree with her, Ginny. And I find her attitude patronizing. That's the one thing I like least in a person, that arrogance of thinking you know what's best for everyone."

Ginny had dropped her arms again and was staring at him, but not with rage. All the fight seemed to have gone out of her. "Hermione can be like that," she said . . . a bit unexpectedly. "She's bossy. We all know it, but she's that way because she _cares_. How can you not see that?" The question sounded confused more than upset. "She cares and she worries and she tries to make sure everyone is all right and looked after and their homework is done and they're . . . happy.

"Sometimes she tells us what we ought to be doing, but she's usually _right. _That's part of why it's so _annoying_. She's usually _right_. She . . . mothers everyone. You didn't see how worried she got last year for Harry, how she couldn't sleep but just read and read and read, looking for spells. Or how angry she got when the fake Moody made Neville watch him cast a Cruciatus Curse on a spider. Ron told me. She screamed at Moody and was ready to cry right there in class. That's_ Hermione_, Cedric. So what if she's bossy sometimes? She just wants to take care of people -- including the elves. It . . . it _hurts_ her to see anything mistreated."

Cedric didn't reply because he couldn't. He just sat there, astonished. Ginny had returned him the girl he thought he'd fallen in love with, the one who'd come to see a stranger in hospital, then kept coming back because she'd realized he needed somebody to talk to, the one who'd written to him as soon as she'd seen the article about his father in the _The Daily Prophet_. And he'd witnessed first hand last year how she'd trailed after Harry, even breaking rules to sneak into the Champions' tent before the Dragon Task just to give him moral support.

That was _his_ Granger.

He still thought her wrong about the elves -- and yes, patronizing -- but Ginny had managed to connect the two Hermiones for him so that he no longer felt as if they were two different people and he'd somehow mistaken one for the other. He hadn't been wrong. He'd just . . . whitewashed her a bit, or tried to make it either-or. But people were never that simple, and if she could only figure out what properly to fight _for_, she'd be unstoppable because she didn't do those things for herself. At the root of it, Hermione Granger had the heart of a servant, and he admired that. It outweighed her occasional (or not so occasional) know-it-all attitude.

But. "I'm not sure she's interested in talking to me about anything any more, Ginny."

"Agggh!" Ginny tore at her rusty red hair. "Boys are so stupid! Do you want to talk to her?" He swallowed, and nodded. "Then go and find her! She's furious at you and you really hurt her feelings, but for whatever reason, she still thinks the sun shines out your backside." Ginny frowned, then admitted, "You had some good points about the elves -- things Hermione needs to hear. Remember, she didn't grow up in our world. Mostly, she gets along, but there are things she doesn't understand. She still thinks like a Muggle sometimes and that includes considering elves people, as if saying they're not is somehow a _bad_ thing. She's not used to living with other intelligent creatures that aren't . . . us."

And Ginny had a point Cedric hadn't really considered, for all that he found her Muggle worldview fascinating. She didn't think like him, and in a weird way, he'd been guilty of doing to her the same thing she was doing to house-elves**: **assuming she should see the world the same way he did. It was a . . . painful recognition, and he found himself smiling a little ruefully. "Thank you," he said.

"For what?"

"Kicking me in the arse."

Ginny laughed and it made her look far less frightful. "Somebody had to do it. You're all right, Diggory." And she left him.

He should talk to Granger. Except, of course, he should also talk to Cho. Yet that talk was nothing he looked forward to so he convinced himself that finding Granger was more important, to see if they could discuss the house-elves without getting up each other's noses. And shouldn't he do that before he talked to Cho anyway? He didn't want it to look as if he were running straight from her to Hermione.

Unfortunately, Hermione was nowhere to be found. She must have come to breakfast while Ginny was giving him an earful. Or she'd been down earlier when he'd been swimming. In any case, she wasn't anywhere he expected her to be, and he couldn't tramp around the castle all day; his legs just wouldn't take it. She was probably in the Gryffindor common room working on something, and he needed to head to McGonagall's tower office for the missed lesson.

McGonagall was waiting for him and had the door open, though whether for his ease of access or to hear him coming, he wasn't sure. "Professor?" he said, poking his head in.

She looked up from the book she was reading while she dictated something to a quotes quill. With a wave, the quill put itself away and she shut the book. "You're early, Diggory."

He clanked in. Her office was as he remembered it -- full of books and papers, and for all her severely neat appearance in class, this place always seemed in a perpetual state of disarray. Belatedly, she realized she had piles of books in his way and gestured for them to restack themselves. "So sorry; have a seat, please."

He settled down in the chair that sat at an angle to her own desk where it was pushed up against a wall and covered in student papers. Above it hung a small painting of the Roman goddess Minerva, her namesake, reading a scroll. Unlike most of the paintings in the castle, this certainly was no portrait, although if the face bore a slight resemblance to a younger Professor McGonagall, it was because the artist had sought to flatter her professor and patron. It wasn't the mature work of a Master Painter, but it occupied pride of place all the same. He liked to see it when he came in here. It was through such small things that McGonagall revealed her affection for students -- current or former.

She glanced at the painting, then back to him. She said nothing; they'd discussed it, and the artist, before. He had, she'd said once, got his gift for Transfigurations from his mother. Now she pushed a pile of books across the desk in his direction. He picked up the top one and glanced at the title. _The Transfiguration of Living Creatures. _He blinked. She thought he was ready for _this_?

He looked back up, his mouth open in surprise. She smiled; it made her face almost pleasant. "Once in a decade or so, Diggory, I have a student who shows the ability to cast permanent transfigurations before the end of his seventh year, a student able to vanish and conjure silently, even able to perform temporary transfigurations of large inanimate to animate objects -- as you did last year in the Dragon Task. You are, obviously, such a student.

"Therefore, I think it time to push you _harder_. I believe you could transfigure living creatures -- but as you well know, magic at that level is not only a matter of talent, but of ethics. To turn a rock into a dog that will become a rock again in a few hours is one thing. It was never really a dog. To transfigure a dog into a rock, however, is something else, and not to be done for convenience or ego satisfaction."

He nodded to show he understood.

"Animate Transfiguration must be registered and licensed, and every apprentice must be vouched for by a Transfiguration master." She smiled. "I am prepared to vouch for you, if you wish to pursue such a course of study. When you complete it and demonstrate competence, it would offer you vocational opportunities you wouldn't otherwise have, even with a NEWT in Transfiguration. I have little doubt you could take the Transfiguration NEWT tomorrow and pass it." He blinked. McGonagall wasn't in the habit of empty praise. "This is a level or two beyond that."

He just nodded again. "I'd like that." He wasn't sure his ultimate career goal had much to do with Transfigurations, but she was right in that such a certificate would open jobs to him that most people couldn't get, and he'd need a job after he left school. With Fudge in office, he wasn't likely to be hired at the Ministry even if he got Os in all six NEWTs.

"Very well," McGonagall said. "We'll meet every Monday afternoon -- it's the only day I'm not teaching at the same time you're not in a class. We may meet in off times as the need arises, but you're perfectly self-motivated, and at first, you'll be absorbing more theory than actual spells. I want you to begin with Adamson's book on top. It deals with the fundamental difference between Transfiguration of a non-living versus living object. You have until Monday-week. For this coming Monday, practice inanimate to animate transfigurations and _feel_ the shift. See how long you can make such a spell last. Time it. On Monday, we'll begin discussion of working with living creatures."

"Yes, professor."

She tilted her head down. "Now, the last thing. It's not uncommon for we who deal with animate transfiguration to master the Animagus transformation as well. I believe you've the potential to become an Animagus, Diggory. Among the books there" -- she patted the pile -- "is an introductory text to Animagi Transfiguration. Once you've mastered basic animate transfigurations, we'll begin preparing you for that, but you may as well start reading about it ahead of time." She paused. "You're frowning."

And he was. Unlike the opportunity to work with animate transfiguration, the prospect of becoming an Animagus didn't interest him. "With all respect, professor, I don't see much point in learning to be an Animagus."

She appeared taken aback. "Whyever not? For somebody of your potential, Diggory --"

"It's not about that," he said. "Whatever I'd become, I'd still be crippled. I don't think they make crutches and wheelchairs for animals."

Understanding washed over her face. "Ah." She tilted her head. "But you don't know yet what you'd _become_. It's entirely possible you'd be something for which your crippling wouldn't matter."

"What? A seal?" Then he blushed. "Sorry, that was rude. It just seems that it's a great deal of effort for something that I probably won't be able to use. Maybe I should spend my time learning something more useful?"

She tilted her head down and eyed him over the top of her square spectacles. "_Knowledge_ is never useless, Mr. Diggory. Even if the Animagus transformation isn't one you wish to employ, to understand how it's done and be able to do it is the keystone of animate Transfigurations. I think it important for you to learn to make that transformation, and will therefore expect you to read the books and make an effort in that direction."

"Yes, professor." But he wasn't happy about it, or convinced, and knew she could hear it in his voice.

As he was leaving, he paused in the doorway and looked back. "May I ask an odd question? Have you ever thought about the house-elves and how we treat them?'

Eyebrows hiked, McGonagall looked up. "Talking to Miss Granger, I see?"

He blushed. "I think she's wrong in some of what she says. But perhaps not entirely."

"I think her heart is in the right place, however peculiar her ideas might be, Diggory. Have a good day."

* * *

**  
Notes: ** What Cedric says about the British overseas could equally be said about American attitudes now. I'm not picking on the Brits. I've gone with the tower-film location of McGonagall's office, rather than the book's second floor. One note on Ginny's appearance. In the books, she has brown eyes, but the actress Bonnie Wright's eyes are blue. As per my previous statement that I've defaulted to actor appearances, Ginny's eyes are therefore blue.


	12. Disintegration

Despite the break in the rain and a beautiful day, Hermione hid in the Gryffindor Tower all Saturday. She had homework, and even Ginny couldn't lure her out until supper, which she ate quickly and without looking around. She had no desire to see Cedric happy with Cho. That night, as usual, she sent her report through Mary, although this time, Mary returned with a note on parchment, sealed with Spellotape. She handed it over. "He says part of your duty is to report to him, not to report to him through me." And she peered at Hermione. "Are you certain he's not harassing you?"

"No, he's not." Well, not like Mary had meant.

Hermione set out her latest batch of elf hats and socks, then headed upstairs, the note clutched in her hand. She was afraid to read it, and certainly didn't want to do so where anyone else might see, in case it made her cry. In her dorm, Lavender and Parvati were busy chatting on their beds so Hermione settled into hers and pulled the curtains around for a measure of privacy, then opened the note.

_My Stubborn Granger --_

_ Sorry for being a prat. But I still disagree with you about the elves. Talk? Without yelling? Meet me on the bridge after breakfast, weather permitting._

_ --Your Annoying Ced_

She slapped a hand over her mouth to keep from bursting into ridiculous giggles, and slept better that night than she had since Tuesday. The morning dawned glorious and sunny, and if she took a bit of extra time with her hair, neither Parvati nor Lavender seemed to notice. When she arrived downstairs for breakfast, Cedric was sitting with his friends so she sat down among the Gryffindors. "You look happier today," Ginny observed as Hermione helped herself to toast.

"Feel a bit better, yes. Homework's done. My elf hats are disappearing -- so I think they do want freedom."

Ginny rolled her eyes but didn't comment, and when Hermione was done eating, she pushed away from the table with a simple, "I'm going for a walk, I think."

"Want company?" Ginny asked.

"No, no," Hermione answered, perhaps a bit too quickly. And why was Ginny suddenly looking over at the Hufflepuff table? "Anyway, I thought you and Michael were going down to the Lake?"

"We are."

"I might see you later, then."

"Later."

Hermione headed out, taking her time to get down to the bridge. When she'd left, Cedric had still been in deep conversation with his mates, but she'd caught him glance her way at least once. On the covered pedestrian bridge, she stopped halfway down and leaned against the side, looking into the chasm at the silvery creek far below. The sky above was eggshell blue, crisscrossed now and then by an owl or other bird, the air crisp with the promise of autumn. This early in the morning, she had the bridge to herself, but after perhaps twenty minutes, she heard the distinctive clunk and scrape that announced Cedric's arrival. Turning, she watched him approach, comparing Cedric now with Cedric of a year ago. She could recall talking to Harry on this same bridge last year, and Cedric trotting down the length of it to catch Harry up. He'd moved so easily then, graceful and sleek like a young leopard. Now it was painful to watch him lurch along, yet for all his awkwardness, he seemed somehow more regal. More like a man, less like a boy.

He was a little out of breath by the time he reached her and she didn't say anything beyond, "Hi," letting him just breathe for a moment. Like her, he leaned to look out over the edge of the bridge.

"Tuesday I was in a foul mood," he began. "That didn't mean you had to avoid me for days." It was almost petulant.

"Who was avoiding who? You left the library. I didn't think you wanted to talk to me any more."

"I didn't -- right then. But when you didn't come with Mary to report, I reckoned that was that."

"I was angry with you."

"I was angry with _you_. Don't tell me you never get pissed off at Harry, or Ron. I know better."

She chanced a glance at him. He was still looking out over the chasm. "I've known them a long time," she said. "We fight; we make up. I didn't know if you'd want to. You seemed . . . really angry with me."

"I needed time to calm down. You hit a nerve."

"I gathered that. But you're wrong, you know. The house-elves do want freedom. I've been knitting hats for them and every morning, when I wake up, they're --"

He'd held up a hand. "Don't start. I came out here to talk, not to have 'I told you so' shoved down my throat. I still don't think you're right." Her mouth opened in protest and he literally covered it with his hand, crutch dangling. "Don't _interrupt_ me. I also don't think you're entirely wrong."

She was very, very tempted to bite his fingers, but the surprise of his touch combined with his admission that she wasn't entirely wrong froze her in place. She waited, quiet, and after a moment, he lowered his hand. "Thank you. Now just be quiet for a minute, all right?"

Mute, she nodded.

"You're right that some house-elves are poorly treated. It's shameful. I agree with that. But I also think you need to learn some things about them. They're not humans, and you have to stop acting as if they are --"

Despite her promise, she took a breath to protest.

"Don't!" he said. "Why is it so impossible for you to be quiet and let someone else talk? I don't interrupt you. It's . . . really rude, Hermione."

And the use of her first name felt strangely cold on his lips. "Sorry, it's just --"

His hand came back up to cover her mouth and she stopped. "What you don't seem to appreciate is that when I say they're not human, I don't mean it badly. I mean they're not _human_ any more than centaurs or giants or goblins. That's not something that you're used to thinking about. I don't know that there's a comparison in the Muggle world. Something can be different without being better or worse, and if we don't have a very good record when it comes to interacting with non-humans, going to the other extreme is just as insulting when you think about it. They may not be less than us, but they're also not _like_ us, and expecting them to be is either unkind or simply arrogant. That's what I was reacting to on Tuesday. And I'm sorry I put it so bluntly, but it's something I feel strongly about -- the wrongness of that sort of arrogance. That's what I want to do with my life, fight that arrogance. You have your house-elves to champion. Understanding people is my crusade, all right?"

And hearing him now, it sounded a lot different than Tuesday, perhaps because he'd made her let him finish. She still wasn't sure she agreed with what he said; his use of 'unkind' to justify keeping house-elves virtually enslaved sounded far too much like pro-slavery apologetics. But he wasn't saying it from some sense of Wizarding superiority. She'd just have to introduce him to Dobby, let him see a house-elf who was proud to be free. Then he'd understand. It was lack of information . . . and he might be right in some things. She'd talk to more house-elves herself, perhaps some of those she'd freed, let them be a voice for the other elves still enslaved. "They do want to be free," she said now. "All the clothes I left out for them disappeared. They took them." Or at least, they'd happened on them, and once they were free, they'd see how much better they felt about themselves.

He shook his head. "First, you're not their master _to_ free them. You can give them as many hats as you want; it means nothing if it doesn't come from their master."

What? Shocked, Hermione sucked in breath. Was he right? She'd understood that the elves served the school, and the students, so she'd just assumed she could free them.

"Second, I have a feeling those hats are ending up in the bin."

Horror struck now, she gaped at him. "How can you say that?"

"I'm honest, Granger." He turned so he could watch her rather than the sky and trees and stream far below. "I'd rather not see you waste your time doing something the elves don't want. Listen to them, find out about them, then work _with_ them for _their_ welfare, if that's what this S.P.E.W. thing's all about. If it's not about you, then don't make it about you -- what you think or decide or do for them. _Ask them._"

And they were right back to where they'd been Tuesday night, repeating the same arguments. She could feel the tears burn, but at least he wasn't practically yelling. "You make me sound awful and selfish."

"The fact you're concerned at all is a tribute to your good heart, but yes, I think you're going about it all wrong. That's what I object to. And how you're going about it really, really rubs me up the wrong way."

She had no idea how to respond to that. He'd just complimented and insulted her at once, or that's what it felt like. "So what? I should just _stop_?"

"_No. _Don't be so bloody stubborn! I already told you what I think you need to do. Talk to the elves -- or listen to them, really. If you're so concerned about them, go and spend a day in the kitchens. Make friends. Find out what their lives are like -- don't tell them what their lives are like. You don't know. You only think you do. That's Gryffindor's great fault, you know."

Chin pulled down, she glared. "What's our great fault?"

"You're always so dead certain you're right."

"Well I could say a few things about Hufflepuff!" She was suddenly angry, not just hurt.

But he only smiled. "So could I. We're so determined to work together, we waffle all over the place and take forever to make a decision. Everyone else gets there first. We just get there together."

Mollified, she studied his face as he studied hers. "So you don't hate me?"

Her question took him aback. "Hate you? I never _hated_ you, Granger. I was really angry with you because I was afraid I'd misjudged you somehow. But I didn't. You care. And you don't just sit around and say you care, you go and do something about it. I admire that. My father's the same way. He was in Gryffindor, too." He grinned. "But sometimes he goes off half-cocked -- like you. It's not charming. It's damned annoying."

"And you think you can keep me from doing that?" She was somewhere between affronted and (just a little) amused.

"I can bloody well try. I'll tell you the truth, even if you don't want to hear it and it pisses you off."

"So you'll join S.P.E.W.?"

"No, I won't. Not until you figure out what the elves actually want. When you can draft something I can believe in, _with_ the assistance ofthe elves, I'll back you completely. Until then, no."

She stamped her foot. "You are _so_ infuriating!"

He shrugged. "That's how I am, Granger. Take me or leave me."

For some reason, and as angry and hurt as she felt, that made her laugh and she leaned out over the side of the bridge again, looking into the water once more. He joined her. "It's been a miserable week not having you around," she admitted, blushing furiously at her frankness, "so I guess I have to take you, however infuriating you are." Ears and neck hot, she glanced over at him.

He was blushing as well. "Good to know I'm missed when I'm not around to torture you by my refusal to agree with everything you say, poppet." She smacked him on the arm. "Hey!" he said, grinning like a maniac. "What did I tell the first years the other night about you getting physical?"

She smacked him again for good measure. "Don't call me poppet."

"What should I call you then? Petal? Pet? Me lovely?"

"You're bloody awful."

"You like me awful."

"I just like you. God knows why."

"So friends?"

"Friends."

They stood side by side on the bridge and watched the water flow by below, together but not touching.

* * *

Cedric should have gone back inside afterwards and talked to Cho. He didn't. He should have gone to read McGonagall's Transfiguration assignment. He didn't. It was a beautiful day and his heart was high, and he and Granger slipped off together down to the lake, far along the path to the south, stopping finally under a great oak. He was completely out of breath, but he'd needed the exercise. They'd both come, by unspoken agreement, about as far as they could get from the castle and still be on Hogwart's grounds.

Then they lay on the grass side by side, talking. They didn't, however, talk about house-elves. Cedric thought they both needed to remember how easy it was to talk about other things. He still didn't touch her, but the tension inside him felt nothing like friendship and if he wasn't technically doing anything wrong, he knew all about the letter of the law versus the spirit. This was cheating on Cho, plain and simple.

He just didn't care at the moment, and felt badly for not feeling worse, but lying in the grass next to Granger on an Indian summer day, it was hard to feel anything but ecstatic and a bit dopey. All his senses were heightened, making him aware of everything: the rich smell of the earth beneath them, and the sharp scent of his own sweat from the hike out here on crutches. Somewhere nearby a bee buzzed and occasionally a bird twittered in the oak above. The sun fell bright gold through the branches, filtering in splashes like falling coins, and an ant crawled over his hand, tickling. At one point he turned his head slightly to find her watching him. They lay at a slight angle to each other like a V, heads close enough that he could feel her breath on his face. She smelled of bacon and pumpkin juice. For a suspended moment, he thought about kissing her, but didn't. When he kissed her finally, he didn't want it marred by anything, most especially not by the fact he shouldn't be out here, flirting with another girl.

Yet was this even flirting? It seemed to him they'd gone well beyond that. Flirting was about innuendo and a bit of uncertainty, but Granger would have to be deaf, dumb and blind not to realize he was head over heels for her.

Abruptly he pushed himself up on an elbow, their faces still just a few inches apart. "I need to go," he said. She just watched him, chocolate eyes soft. "There's a whole lot of things wrong with this -- us being here, and . . . " He trailed off. "I need to talk to Cho."

She blushed and looked away, face suddenly guilty. "You're going to break up with her?"

"What do you think?"

"We can't -- We shouldn't, um, we shouldn't see each other -- not right after, you know? It'd be cruel."

She was right, although it annoyed him. He also noticed they hadn't even bothered with the dance of 'Will you . . . ?" It seemed a bit passé, at this point. "I know," he said instead. "Assuming I can stay away from you. I haven't been very good at that, so far."

It made her smile. "I thought you'd been staying away from me for the last, what, four days?"

"Well, I was angry with you!"

She sat up abruptly and looked back at him over her shoulder. It was almost a 'come hither' look except Granger didn't know how to do that on purpose, so the impact was twice as powerful for being entirely unconscious. "What happened to 'the lift didn't happen'?"

Pursing his lips, he said, "You're stringing me along, now."

Her slightly coquettish look disappeared. "Sorry, not trying to. Not really. Just --" She tilted her head. "I'm not sure what."

Dropping back down on his side, he stretched out his arm toward her, hand covering hers where it propped her up. She shifted her balance and let him have the hand. He rubbed the back of it with a thumb but didn't say anything. Instead, he let her go and sat up all the way, reaching for his crutches and pushing himself to his feet. "It's probably best if we don't walk back together."

She nodded. "I'll wait a while here." She didn't wish him luck, he noticed. But then luck wasn't what he needed, just a backbone.

In the end, he didn't find Cho, she found him in the Great Hall at lunch. It was near the end of the hour so only a few students still occupied it as she sat down beside him at the Hufflepuff table. "Where have you been all morning?" It wasn't, quite, waspish.

"Outside," he said around a bite of ham and bread.

"Doing what?"

"Just sitting by the lake."

She regarded him strangely. "I didn't see you; I went down there."

"Sorry."

"You were by yourself? Studying?"

And oh Merlin, why had she had to ask that point blank? He was a lousy liar when he felt guilty for the lie, but he simply couldn't tell her the truth. It would hurt her too much. "Yes," he said and took another bite to cover.

She didn't reply for half a minute, then said, "Why do I not believe you?" Her voice shook and he glanced at her. She had tears in her eyes and she may as well have dug claws straight through his gut. It made him angry, but as a result of feeling guilty. She wasn't manipulating him, or not on purpose. Her tears were real.

"Cho --"

"Stop it! Just stop it!" She got to her feet, glaring down. Everyone still in the hall looked over. "I don't understand what's going on any more. You're hot or you're cold, and I'm tired of being treated like I'm a terrible _burden_ to you. Piss off, Cedric!"

She left. Storming away from him at meals was getting to be a habit.

Then he thought about what she'd said. Had she just broken up with _him_? Or was that only another tantrum? He wasn't entirely sure, in large part because Cho wasn't moody -- or hadn't been until lately. It was one of the things he'd liked about her. She was straightforward and sensible. The fact she was acting so unpredictable now was, he knew, mostly his fault. But it also meant he had no idea if he should take the 'piss off' literally or if it were girl-code for 'come and make up with me.'

Probably the second. He suspected that if he went after her, she'd take him back.

But it would be a lot easier if he didn't. He could take her dismissal at face value and this mess would all be over. He wouldn't have to _say_ the words, or answer awkward questions -- or watch her cry. It could just be assumed.

He went back to his sandwich, trying to ignore the glances shot his way. He was glad there was no one else sitting with him. He didn't want to talk right now.

* * *

Hermione felt the change after lunch like the static before a storm. She caught whispers and once ran into Luna, who said bluntly, "Cho Chang is crying in our common room. She says you stole Cedric from her."

And how on earth was Hermione supposed to answer _that_? "I didn't 'steal' Cedric. I've barely even seen him this week." Which was certainly true. "He's a friend of Harry's."

Luna tilted her head. "He watches you. I've seen him."

Hermione blinked three times, trying to decide what to say. "I didn't steal him from Cho. I'm not that sort of girl. He's not that sort of boy. We talk sometimes. We get along. But you don't see him following me around, do you?"

"No," Luna admitted with her usual frankness. "But Cedric wouldn't, not so soon. It would hurt Cho." And she walked away, radish earrings swinging. Hermione watched her go, a bit stunned. She honestly couldn't fathom the other girl. One minute Luna became frighteningly perceptive, and the next, she was declaiming on the Wizarding World's version of crystals and chakras, off on her own planet.

In any case the news was all over the castle by dinner**: **Hogwart's Golden Couple was history. Ravenclaw (or at least the girls) came together around Cho. Hufflepuff came together behind Cedric. Gryffindor whispered. Slytherin laughed behind hands. Occasional glances were shot in Hermione's direction, but whatever Luna had related about Cho's accusations, most people didn't immediately connect her with Cedric.

It was _Cedric's_ name being dragged through mud. "He's changed since June." "Well, that's rather obvious, isn't it?" "He even says he saw You Know Who!" "Do you think he's cracked like Potter?" "The Tournament was pretty intense, and then he lost his legs -- maybe he's gone round the bend." "Never would have thought he'd dump _Cho Chang_." "Do you really think he's interested in that Granger girl?" "She's just a friend of Potter's, and he's very thick with that crowd now." "Bloody rotten of him to hurt Cho like that." "Just like a useless, coddled prat. How'd he get to be a Triwizard Champion anyway?"

Cedric bore the whispers with a bit more grace than Harry had on Monday, but he didn't linger over his dinner and went back to the Hufflepuff common room with his friends. Hermione didn't see him until rounds report, and she dawdled outside the prefects' lounge, waiting until some others showed up so she wouldn't be caught talking to him alone. When she knocked on his office door together with Ernie, Hannah and Ron, he looked up and asked, "All right, you four?" He didn't meet her eyes.

"No troubles," Ernie replied. "See you tomorrow, Ced."

"Tomorrow," he said, and went back to a book he was reading. She left with the other three.

Returning to their common room, Ron -- who seemed frazzled from his day writing essays -- asked, "So is what they're saying true?"

"It might help me answer if I knew to which 'they' you're referring and what 'they' are saying."

"You're so annoying, Hermione. I mean about Cedric and Cho. She broke up with him?"

"Yes, I think so, at lunch -- but I haven't talked to either since."

He shot her a glance as they mounted the stone stairs towards the Gryffindor Tower. "He hasn't -- you know -- asked you out, or to be his . . . "

"What?" Her mouth dropped open. "No!" So it wasn't entirely the truth, but it wasn't a lie, either. He _hadn't_ asked her. They'd both just assumed that part whenever it was safe to admit it.

"Well, at least Harry's happy. I saw him talking to Cho after dinner. And he says he saw her yesterday morning in the owlery, too. Filch had some crazy idea he was ordering dungbombs. Cho covered for him."

"Dungbombs? That's odd." And Harry would probably be delighted that Cho was free; there were worse things than him distracting her. Hermione hadn't missed the fact Cho smiled at Harry just a little differently than she smiled at anybody else, Cedric excepted. Her attention had cooled somewhat after the ball last year, but before the ball . . . Well, Hermione had thought Cho just might've fancied Harry a bit.

Harry was still working on his essays when she and Ron returned and all three of them sat together until late, when an owl unexpectedly arrived at the Gryffindor common room window. It bore the most insulting letter from Percy Weasley with 'advice' for Ron about dissociating himself from Harry. Hermione read it over Harry's shoulder, and might have confiscated it to show Cedric but Ron snatched it back and ripped it to shreds in a pique, tossing it in the fire. Nonetheless, a few lines stuck in Hermione's head.

_"I feel bound to tell you that Dumbledore may not be in charge at Hogwarts much longer and the people who count have a very different -- and probably more accurate -- view of Potter's behavior."_

And _"Seriously, Ron, you do not want to be tarred with the same brush as Potter, it could be very damaging to your future prospects, and I am talking here about life after school too. As you must be aware, given that our father escorted him to court, Potter had a disciplinary hearing this summer in front of the whole Wizengamot and he did not come out of it looking too good. Cedric Diggory appeared as a witness as well, although he wasn't invited, and said some very insulting things to the Minister, things that have not been forgotten. I'm astonished he was named Head Boy, although perhaps I shouldn't be, as it provides further proof of Dumbledore's unsuitability to remain in charge there. In any case, Potter got off on a mere technicality if you ask me, and many of the people I've spoken to remain convinced of his guilt."_

And _"This leads me to my other bit of advice. As I have hinted above, Dumbledore's regime at Hogwarts may soon be over. Your loyalty, Ron, should be not to him, but to the school and the Ministry. I am very sorry to hear that so far Professor Umbridge is encountering very little cooperation from staff as she strives to make those necessary changes within Hogwarts that the Ministry so ardently desires (although she should find this easier from next week -- again, see the Prophet tomorrow!). I shall say only this -- a student who shows himself willing to help Professor Umbridge now may be very well placed for Head Boyship in a couple of years"_

She knew she wouldn't remember the words exactly, but she could reproduce the drift.

Cedric had been right about Umbridge. She _was_ here to remove Dumbledore, but Hermione wondered if Cedric realized that if Dumbledore went, Cedric himself would be next? Hermione didn't think Umbridge would let him stay Head Boy for long.

Their conversation with Sirius-in-the-fire that followed did nothing to improve Hermione's spirits about the situation at Hogwarts. "Our information from inside the Ministry is that Fudge doesn't want you trained in combat," he said.

Trained in combat?" Harry asked incredulously. "What does he think we're doing here, forming some sort of wizard army?"

"That's exactly what he thinks you're doing," Sirius replied. "Or rather, that's exactly what he's afraid Dumbledore's doing -- forming his own private army, with which he will be able to take on the Ministry of Magic."

The proposition was so absurd, neither she, Ron nor Harry could even reply for half a minute. Then Ron summed up their feelings with, "That's the stupidest thing I've ever heard, including all the stuff that Luna Lovegood comes out with."

"So we're being prevented from learning Defense Against the Dark Arts because Fudge is scared we'll use spells against the Ministry?" she asked Sirius.

"Yep," Sirius replied. "Fudge thinks Dumbledore will stop at nothing to seize power. He's getting more paranoid about Dumbledore by the day. It's a matter of time before he has Dumbledore arrested on some trumped-up charge."

They asked Sirius what he knew about the article in the _Prophet_ to which Percy had referred, but Sirius couldn't enlighten them. Then they asked him about Hagrid, only to be put off in a way that made Hermione worry even more where Hagrid was.

It all gave her a great deal to think about, and whatever the current situation with Cho, she needed to speak with Cedric as soon as possible. Spelling her alarm, she rose early, dressed for the day and was waiting for Madam Pince when the woman arrived to open the library. There, Hermione pulled out _A History of Hogwarts_, _Prefects Who Gained Power_, and several other titles, searching through them and making notes to herself. But she wasn't interested in those who became Head Boy only to go on to gain power later in life.

No, she wanted to know if anybody had ever been _removed_ from the office -- and why.

* * *

Cedric didn't go to breakfast. He spent the hour swimming, then dropped in at the kitchens to get something to eat before his first class, Double Charms. He was a little early, and seeing him enter, Flitwick tapped something on his desk down below. It reappeared on the desk in front of Cedric, and he dropped his jaw at the headline:

**Ministry Seeks Educational Reform  
Dolores Umbridge Appointed First-Ever "High Inquisitor"**

What the _fucking_ hell?

He read the article, barely glancing up as Peter, Ed and Scott traipsed in. Scott dropped a piece of parchment in front of him atop the paper. "See you've caught up with the news even if you didn't show up for breakfast," he said. "Granger asked me to give you that."

His friends took seats as the rest of the desks filled. Cedric didn't open the note immediately, but instead he leaned over to say, "How'd the Umbridge news go over? _Inspections?_"

"I think people are a bit afraid to say anything," Peter replied softly. "Well, not those who agree with her appointment, but everybody else seems to be looking around for which way to jump, y'know? Susan said this is serious. We need to be careful now. Really careful. You especially."

A short, squat shadow in the doorway made Peter cut off and there were murmurs around the room as Umbridge entered, a clipboard in hand. "I trust you received my note," she asked Flitwick, "giving the time and date of your inspection?"

Poised atop his desk in the hall's center below, little Flitwick bowed elegantly. "Welcome to Charms, Professor Umbridge. I hope you don't mind taking a seat at the back?"

"Not at all," she simpered.

"Got her eating right out of his hand, the bloke has," Peter muttered under his breath.

But to their horror, Umbridge Conjured a chair directly behind _Cedric_. Peter glanced around at her; Cedric specifically didn't. Across the room, he could see the Weasley twins eyeing him -- not without sympathy for once.

The woman's presence in the shadows at his back, like a spider, made Cedric determined to show no weakness. Fortunately, Charms was one of his better classes. He might not shine at it quite as much as he did with Transfigurations, but the two were linked, and he had a talent for both. He even suspected that at one point, Flitwick set him a challenge just to show him off to Umbridge. The rest of the students were having trouble charming bluebirds out of their wands. "Give me a bird of prey, Mr. Diggory," Flitwick called to him at the back of the class. "_Silently_, if you please." So Cedric did. Raising his wand, he thought, _Avis Accipiter Gentilis_, and a black-and-white banded goshawk shot out of his wand end to swoop around the lecture hall before disappearing in a shower of silver dust. It netted him applause from his fellow students (even the Gryffindors) and Flitwick nodded, grinning. "Well _done_, Diggory!"

Behind him, Cedric heard a little cough, as if Umbridge had swallowed something unpleasant.

When the lesson was over, he packed up his things and watched Umbridge waddle away towards Angelina Johnson, who appeared less than thrilled. Free of the Toad's eye at last, he opened the parchment note from Hermione and read it quickly:

_See me in the library at lunch. West side. There's an alcove about halfway down the outside aisle. It has a table and a stained glass window of a butterfly woman with no face. If you squeeze in between the table and the window, no one passing in the aisle can see you. I'll meet you there._

She hadn't signed it. Folding it up, he tucked it in his robes and told Peter, "I'm going to the library."

"Still avoiding Cho?" Peter asked knowingly.

"Actually, no." But then he changed his mind. "Well, maybe a bit." Better if even Peter didn't know what he was really doing. "But I've got homework, too."

"Whatever, mate. Want me to bring you something to eat to History of Magic?"

"Yeah, if you would."

They parted and he took the lift up to the library floor. He was fairly sure he knew the alcove of which Hermione spoke and when he arrived and had squeezed past the chairs -- rather awkward on crutches -- he found her waiting cross-legged on the floor. Glancing around to be sure no one was watching, he settled down facing her, leaning his back against the window ledge, his knees drawn up. Wordlessly, she reached into her bag and handed him some bread and cheese. "Food in the library, Granger?" he whispered.

"I thought you might be hungry since you weren't at breakfast."

"I stopped by the kitchen. They're getting used to seeing me. I'd rather swim in the morning, actually." He took a bite of cheese.

"Swim?"

"Prefects' bath."

"Oh." She peered at him. "You can swim?" Then she blushed.

He kicked at her foot, lightly, so the brace didn't hurt. "You _can_ ask me questions about what I can and can't do. I'd rather you ask than wonder. And yes, I can swim -- swim rather well, actually."

It made her smile. "I wish I could see you. But, well, I don't think the room would let me in."

"See me swim, or see other things?" It was out before he really thought about it -- the sort of off-color crack he might have made to Cho, but Granger wasn't Cho and her face turned an even more brilliant scarlet.

"Cedric!" she hissed, her voice climbing above a whisper for the first time.

"Shh," he said. "You blush very well, you know."

"You're awful."

"You said that yesterday. And I told you, you like me awful."

Picking at her bread, she tossed a bit of the crust at him. He tried to catch it in his mouth but missed. He realized he was blushing, too, but the first suggestive joke was past and maybe that marked some manner of watershed. She leaned forward. "This is serious, you know."

He almost made another quip but she was right**: **it was serious, and they had only an hour, or even less as it took him so long to get anywhere. "I take it you want to talk about Umbridge again?"

She nodded and wiggled closer to him, head bent. "There's more than just what was in the _Prophet _this morning. Last night, Ron got this . . . _awful_ letter from Percy. Not awful to Ron, but awful. I'd've saved it to show you, but he was so angry, he tore it up and threw it in the common-room fire." Then while Cedric ate, she summarized what Percy had said, including the line about him. "You were right," she finished. "They're after Dumbledore."

He just nodded, and tried to push down irritation at Percy. "That git never liked me."

"He didn't?" She seemed surprised by that. "But, I'd have thought -- I mean, you're both such good students!"

Shaking his head, he said, "He was a bit full of himself. I and Janice -- the other Hufflepuff prefect in my year -- just wouldn't take him seriously enough when he started ranting about something."

"Well," she said, her face showing a clear struggle. "Percy's very _responsible_. Not that I like him, I mean -- he turned on his family. But he did usually try to follow the rules."

"Lighten up, Granger. Sometimes you have to break rules to do the right thing -- and I know you know it. You, Potter and Weasley aren't exactly famous for following rules. In fact, I thought you a bit of a troublemaker last year, at first."

"Me!" Her face was indignant.

"Yes, you. Sneaking into the Champion's Tent like that before the Dragon Task."

"Well, I needed to see Harry, to, you know . . . I just needed to see how he was." Looking up at him, she caught his grin. "You're teasing me."

"You fall for it so _easily_, you make it hard not to." Reaching out, he ran a thumb over her cheek and she closed her eyes, her expression almost . . . transported. Inside his chest, something uncurled, fluttering like moth wings. "You're so beautiful," he said even more softly. Her eyes opened, surprised. "And truth? When you came to the tent last year, looking so focused and worried for Harry, I was jealous. I wanted a friend as loyal as you; I never expected to _get_ you myself."

She smiled faintly. "Fate's a funny thing, Diggory." Then her eyes grew serious again. "There's more."

He dropped his hand from her face. "Tell me."

"Sirius showed up in the common room fireplace last night." At his raised eyebrows, she said, "Harry wrote him a letter. Yes, I know it was foolish, but apparently he didn't say anything too revealing. Sirius told us something more. Fudge thinks Dumbledore is trying to start his own . . . wizard _army_, or something ridiculous like that!"

Abruptly, she fell silent and he could hear voices in the distance. Someone was coming along the aisle. They both crouched down and stayed quiet until the pair of students passed. He realized halfway through that he was clutching her hand and she was clutching his. When the girls had gone, he tugged at the hand. She seemed confused and he leaned over to slide an arm around her waist, pulling her to him so that she sat between his knees against his chest, his arms around her shoulders. "We don't have to whisper so loudly this way," he said in her ear -- though it was really just an excuse to hold her and he was sure she knew it. She must be able to hear how hard his heart hammered under his ribs.

She tucked her head beneath his chin and set a hand on his chest, although she didn't speak immediately. He stroked her shoulder under her robe. Her hair smelled of lilies, or some spring flower. "Tell me exactly what Sirius said," he prompted after a minute.

She did, and asked at the end, "Can you believe it?"

"It's insane but . . . the sad thing is, I can believe it."

She pushed away from him a little, turning her head to look at him. "I'm not just worried about Dumbledore, I'm worried about you, too."

"Why?" It was hard to concentrate on her words with her face that close. He just wanted to bend forward and kiss her.

"If they can get rid of Dumbledore, Cedric, what makes you think they'll let you stay as Head Boy?"

His gaze rose from her mouth to her eyes. He couldn't say he hadn't thought about that, but -- "Once appointed, it's not easy to dismiss Heads or prefects. We'd have to _do_ something seriously wrong."

"I know," she said. "I came here before breakfast and looked some things up." She had? "I wanted to know about previous Head Boys who'd been removed from office. There aren't many examples."

"I told you."

"But there are some." She leaned away from him long enough to snare her book bag and search through it. Finding whatever she was seeking, she pulled it out and handed it to him**: **a page of her notes. "There -- I made a list. Who they were and what they did. Only seven since Hogwarts started, but, well -- it should give you some idea."

He glanced through it. "Gaius Bickerman _killed_ someone in a duel? Good heavens. Rupert Smythe got a girl pregnant -- and the Head Girl? Well, yeah, that would do it." He set the list aside. "Like I said, Granger -- it has to be something fairly serious, which I think that list shows. I'm not planning on murdering anybody, all right? Even Malfoy."

"The duel death was an accident," she pointed out, head turned just slightly where it rested against his shoulder. "And you picked out the two most extreme. There are other things on there."

"I know, I can read. They're still all serious infractions of the rules. Cheating -- three of those. I may pass notes in class" -- he winked down at her -- "but I've never cheated on a test." Well, knowing about the dragons might have constituted cheating, but all the champions had known so he didn't think that counted. "I'm a good boy," he added, wagging his eyebrows. "Good at a lot of things."

Unimpressed, she gave a sniff. "And you said Percy was full of himself."

"Yeah, well, Percy was serious about it."

She twisted in his arms so she should see his face fully. "Don't forget what they tried to do to Harry this summer -- they can trump something up. You're going to have to tread very carefully."

"I know," he said. "I know, Granger. Thank you for looking into all that." He pulled her against his shoulder and held her. She seemed content with that and they just breathed together. He could stay this way all afternoon but fished in his pocket for his watch, opening the front to look at it. "I have to leave in a few minutes to make it to class." She nodded against his shoulder but didn't speak. One of her hands had sneaked around his waist and her head was tucked under his chin again. Stroking her hair and pressing his mouth to the crown of her head, he felt both gut-wrenching excitement and a languid happiness, and sat with her five minutes longer than he should have, debating whether to try to kiss her. Despite everything, he felt a bit nervous about it, frozen with indecision.

Finally they parted so he could stand up. "How long should we wait, do you think?" she asked.

"Wait for what?" He wasn't sure what she was talking about.

She frowned. "People are already gossiping enough about you and Cho. We shouldn't give them more to tar and feather you with."

He sighed. A part of him didn't want to wait at all, but they'd just been discussing his need to tread carefully, and not only with Umbridge. Dumbledore had put him in charge to unite the Houses, not alienate his fellow students. At least she recognized as much, too. "Let's play it by ear," he replied, listening carefully before daring to stand up. The last thing they needed was to be caught huddled together on the floor behind a library table. Turning back, he smiled down at her. "Later, Granger."

Cedric's lesson with McGonagall was outside in the courtyard so they had some space, but it didn't go as well as it probably should have. He'd spent too much of his weekend with his mind on girls -- the one he wanted and the one he'd just broken up with -- not on Transfigurations. "This is not up to your usual standard, Mr. Diggory," McGonagall admonished him halfway through. "I'm disappointed."

Ashamed, he hung his head. "I know, I'm sorry." He could have offered excuses but didn't bother. McGonagall didn't accept them, for her students or herself.

She was watching him, as if trying to decide whether to say anything further. In the end she didn't, and they returned to the lesson. Before he left for supper, however, she made one almost offhand comment, "I realize that, at your age, Diggory, the opposite sex can be a bit distracting, and even intelligent boys notice intelligent girls. But do try to remember why you're here."

When he finally reached the Great Hall, still chagrined, it was only to be greeted by loud shouting. Angelina Johnson appeared ready to tear a strip or three off Harry. McGonagall, coming in behind him, swept past and down on the two in a rage. "Miss Johnson, how dare you make such a racket in the Great Hall! Five points from Gryffindor!"

"But Professor -- he's gone and landed himself in detention _again_ --"

What? Cedric clunked closer even as McGonagall echoed his question aloud, "What's this, Potter? Detention? From whom?"

Cedric was too far away to hear Harry's response, or McGonagall's reply but Hermione was standing near them and she turned to look at him, mouthing (if not obviously) 'Umbridge.'

Bloody hell. The stupid, temperamental _git_. Didn't he realize what was at stake here?

Cedric stomped down the length of the Hufflepuff table, his back to Gryffindor. He didn't want to talk to Harry right now; he didn't feel particularly sympathetic. But what awaited him at dinner was no better. He'd barely sat down and filled his plate when Susan Bones appeared beside him, slipping him a copy of _The Evening Prophet_, opened to an inner page. The _Prophet's_ evening edition was given somewhat more to 'human interest' stories than the news-focused morning printing. Now, he took the paper from Susan and read what she'd found. It wasn't long. It didn't need to be.

**Cedric Diggory's Personal Tragedy**

_When the famed Triwizard Tournament ended last June with that shocking attack on two Champions due to an appalling oversight by Albus Dumbledore,__ we all knew that Cedric Diggory, 17, son of Ministry employee Amos Diggory and Master Painter Lucy Diggory, had been severely wounded. What wasn't known yet was the full extent of young Diggory's incapacitation._

_ Suffering from irreversible spell damage, Britain's Triwizard Champion went from a bright, promising, athletic student and Quidditch Captain to a permanently handicapped victim of Dumbledore's incompetence, with a lifelong dependency on potions, including the restricted Abdoleo for pain management._

_ "Abdoleo is on the list of restricted potions because it's a highly addictive narcotic that dulls physical sensation," explained medi-wizard Patrick Johnston of St. Mungo's --_

Who the ruddy hell was Johnston? He'd never had a healer named Johnston. The _Prophet_ must have cornered the first person they could find, certainly not anybody who actually knew anything about Cedric's condition.

_ "It deadens pain, of course, but it deadens all physical sensation. Potions aren't as specific as we'd like them to be." Johnston went on to add, "It can also interfere with a patient's ability to think and reason to his full capacity. It's an inevitable side effect of narcotics of this type."_

_ "Mr. Diggory has gone from an O-student to passing notes in class with more unsavory sorts," said Ministry-appointed Hogwart's High Inquisitor Dolores Umbridge (see the story in our morning edition). "It's terribly sad."_

Cedric let out a laugh. Looking up at Peter, Ed and Scott, he said, "You lot are 'unsavory' now."

_ This autumn, Diggory -- in his final year at Hogwarts -- was appointed by Dumbledore to the much-coveted position of Head Boy, perhaps as a gesture of apology, or to secure his silence. In any case, it seems cruel to place someone so chronically ill and dependent on medication in a position of such high stress and responsibility. We only hope that Diggory hasn't been asked for more than he can bear._

Cedric tossed the paper on the table. "Brilliant," he said.

That won him startled looks from Susan, and Ernie, Justin and Hannah, too, who'd followed her over. They must all have read it. Scott had it now, scanning it quickly with Peter and Ed reading over his shoulder. "Cedric," Susan began, "how can you say -- "

"In five paragraphs, Fudge's lackeys at the paper have managed to completely undermine my authority and provide a perfect reason to dismiss anything I say that they don't want taken seriously." He stabbed at his pork chop and cut into it ruthlessly. "I'm a brain-addled drug addict. How could I possibly know what's going on? Like I said -- it's a brilliant piece of writing."

Abruptly he dropped his utensils with a clatter, snarling softly so that no one beyond them could hear, "That bloody _bitch_."

"Hey mate," Peter said, "half the seventh-year class -- and Umbridge -- saw you pull a hawk out of your wand today when we couldn't even get songbirds. If that's drug-addled, I'll take some of what you're having."

"Shut up, Pete," Scott told him before Cedric could. Scott was frowning at the paper. "This may be shite, but it's dangerous shite. We know what he can do because we know him. That's the _point_. It's people who don't know him who'll pay attention to this. Parents, other students --"

Cedric abruptly pushed his plate away. "I'm not hungry." Getting to his feet, he left the hall. People watched him go, most in confusion, but a few with knowing glances. _The Evening Prophet_ wasn't that widely read, but he was sure that by tomorrow morning, everybody in the school would have either seen or heard a summary of the article.

The more he thought about it, the more enraged he became. Always a good and quiet student, he'd had little experience with attacks on his reputation. First had been the gossip about Cho, but, well -- he knew himself at least partly guilty as charged. But this? He wanted nothing more than to Conjure an entire pack of wolves into Umbridge's office. And he'd thought ill of Harry for getting more detentions? Right now, he doubted he could face Umbridge without unleashing such a string of profanity he'd earn a month of them. How had Dumbledore stood attacks like this all summer?

As if Conjured (unlike the wolves), Dumbledore was waiting in the Entrance Hall as Cedric clumped into it. Halting, Cedric just glared. The headmaster approached, appearing solemn and more troubled than Cedric could ever recall seeing him. "I am . . . truly sorry. When I asked you, this summer --"

"-- you asked, I said yes," Cedric interrupted, though he knew it terribly rude of him. He didn't want apologies from Dumbledore. He wanted revenge on Umbridge.

Still looking troubled, Dumbledore shook his head. "Shall we walk?"

Cedric nodded and they headed out the main entrance, Dumbledore tapping his staff almost absently on the steps to make a flat ramp for Cedric. It wasn't quite dark yet, though the moon was up. Glancing towards the Forbidden Forest, Cedric saw a pair of dark-winged horses rise above the tree line, and remembered the strange animals pulling the carriages. Almost, he opened his mouth to ask about them, but didn't. Was there some truth to the accusations of being addle-headed if he were seeing things?

Dumbledore glanced over at him, face pulled into a knowing expression. "You've spotted some of our thestrals, I see."

"Thestrals!" Of _course_. "There are _thestrals_ in the forest?"

"Indeed. Hagrid has built up quite a herd."

"Isn't that . . . dangerous? To have them pulling the carriages? They were pulling the carriages, weren't they? They're not precisely _tame_."

"Nor are many things that are, nonetheless, beautiful and useful."

He couldn't argue with that. "I can see them . . . "

"Because you witnessed a death, yes. I find it reassuring that, even in such times as these, so few of our students _can_ see them. I hope it will always be so, but fear I may be overly optimistic." He stopped walking then and turned to face Cedric. "Despite what you said a moment ago, I must still apologize to you, Mr. Diggory. In my need this summer, I asked you for something I don't believe you could, then, fully grasp the ramifications of. Although to be fair, I never expected such a direct attack on a student. To cast aspersions on me is one thing. To humiliate and insult a boy --"

"I'll be eighteen in two weeks, sir. I'm not a boy."

Dumbledore considered him through the half-moon spectacles. "In many ways, you are not, or I would never have placed you in this position at all. Nonetheless. There is something of a difference between eighteen and one hundred and fifty five, so I hope you will forgive me if I still call you a boy." He said it with a kind smile, and the reminder mollified Cedric a bit. "It by no means reflects a lack of respect for your integrity or your talent -- or your ability to reason. I hope you do understand that making you Head Boy was far from a guilty apology. If I'd pitied you, I would have made certain you suffered no strain at all this year. Instead, I might be asking more of you than I've ever asked of any Head Boy. You may be disabled, Cedric, but you are far from handicapped, not in any way that matters."

Cedric blushed and ducked his head, pleased by the compliment even if he also recognized it for a pep talk. "I know why you picked me. I can do what the Sorting Hat said we need. I can unify them." Then he realized how arrogant that had sounded and felt the blood scald his ears and neck. "Merlin, that was cheeky."

"No, that was clear-sighted and honest," Dumbledore said. "Modesty has its place. But so does a fair appraisal of your own abilities and value. You represent all the strengths of your House -- one of which is unity. You understand why it matters, and are able to accomplish things that I, in my exalted position" -- he grinned at that -- "cannot. I wish I could say personal attacks against you will cease after this."

"But they won't. They're just starting."

"I fear so. The way to divide us is by causing us to doubt one another."

"Then I'll have to fight back." He'd said as much to Hermione before, but hadn't any clear notion then how to do it. Now a fledgling idea came to him. "Sir, may I have a room in the castle? An empty one? Preferably in a central location -- on the ground floor, or near the library, perhaps?"

"I suppose I could locate an empty room for you, Mr. Diggory. May I inquire as to how you plan to use it?"

"If Umbridge -- and Voldemort -- want to divide us to make us weaker, it's time we stopped helping them by segregating _ourselves_. The Sorting Hat thinks sorting's a bad idea, so I want to _un_Sort us. I want to make a _Hogwarts_ common room where anyone, of any House, will be welcome."

Dumbledore's head came up and Cedric had the impression he might actually have managed to surprise the headmaster. "That is a magnificent idea, Mr. Diggory," Dumbledore said after a moment, smiling slyly.

* * *

**  
Notes: **Yes, there are several references in various chapters to _Goblet of Fire_ scenes as shown in the movie, not the book, but I like that pedestrian bridge. Please remember this novel is a mix of sources. I also altered the timing of the shouting match between Angelina and Harry; in the book, it occurs Tuesday morning, not Monday night.

**Thanks again to the lovely folks who've left feedback anonymously that I can't respond to. I very much appreciate it! Those who leave signed comments will always receive a reply.**


	13. The Hogwart's Common Room

  
It was Ron who told Hermione what the "line writing" during Harry's detentions with Umbridge really amounted to. She was horrified. "That absolute monster! We've got to tell Dumbledore!"

"Harry doesn't want to, Hermione."

"But --"

"You try to convince him, then. But you can't go over his head."

"McGonagall then."

"Same answer." Ron didn't even bother to look up as he worked on his dream diary, jotting down ideas for Harry as he went, probably to save Harry time later.

"Cedric?"

Ron finally glanced at her. "I thought you weren't talking to him?"

Hermione blushed. "Well . . . I wasn't. We weren't. Now we are." She lowered her voice though the others in the Gryffindor common room weren't really listening. "I needed to tell him the news from Sirius."

Ron had returned his attention to his diary, writing with a certain angry flourish. "You like him, don't you?"

"He's very nice --"

"You _fancy_ him. And he fancies you."

Uncomfortable with this new conversational direction, she squirmed. It hadn't been so long ago that she'd harbored a crush on Ron, and had wondered sometimes if he might feel the same. Nor had she forgotten how vicious he'd been about Viktor because she'd gone to the Yule Ball with him. Yet she didn't want to lie. If she and Cedric weren't ready to go public to the rest of the school, Ron and Harry were her best friends. They deserved to know the truth. "Yes," she said now. "And before you ask, no, he did not break up with Cho for me."

He nodded, eyes on his writing. "So he's . . . he's treating you all right, then?"

"We just had a disagreement. We settled it." Or at least they'd buried it for the moment, and learned they could survive being angry with each other.

"What about?" Ron asked, as if genuinely curious.

"House-elves."

That won a snort. "He told you you're a nutter, didn't he?"

Opening her Astronomy text, she pretended interest in that. "He just needs to meet Dobby."

"He's not going to agree with you any more than I do, Hermione. They have a house-elf, you know."

She jerked her head up. "What! How do you know?"

"The Diggorys aren't poor. I mean, they're not Malfoys or Blacks or anything, but yeah. It's not like _we_ knew them well, but I remember seeing their elf. She dotes on Diggory like a nanny."

Well that certainly explained a thing or two, Hermione thought. Of course he wouldn't be open to hearing about house-elf liberation if he was part of the slavery system, and even three days ago, this news might have left her furious. But she'd realized since that he just needed to hear the other side. Cedric had a kind heart. And if he did genuinely care about his elf, perhaps she could enlist that elf's aid in explaining it all to him.

Harry returned to the tower while she was on rounds and she didn't see him that night. Like the evening before, she made sure to present her report to Cedric in the company of others, but after their pleasant lunch date in the library (whatever the unpleasant topic of discussion), she wasn't prepared for the furious frown on his face or the shortness of his voice. On the way out, Ron muttered, "Who peed in his soup?"

"Umbridge," Ernie MacMillan replied even as Hannah Abbot asked, "You haven't seen _The Evening Prophet_?" She and Ron both shook their heads. Hannah's face was unusually hard. "Come down to the entrance hall." They followed the two Hufflepuffs, then waited while Hannah and Ernie disappeared into the Hufflepuff common room and returned, paper in hand. Hannah offered it up, already folded to the offending article.

Hermione sucked in breath as she read, feeling the blood drain out of her face. "What sort of rubbish is this?" Ron asked, reading over her shoulder.

Hermione thrust the paper at him and hurried off so that neither Hannah nor Ernie could see her fume -- or cry. She wished she could hang, draw and quarter Umbridge.

The next morning, the bandage on Harry's hand made her feel even worse. Umbridge was getting away with murder and no one seemed able to stop her. After breakfast, Hermione found herself running after Cedric even though they'd agreed not to reveal their relationship yet. But she wasn't seeking him out as her boyfriend. She was a prefect who wanted to see the Head Boy. "Cedric!" she called. Surprised, he turned. He was walking with his friend Peter, who peered at her curiously as she stopped beside them. "I need to speak with you about a student," she said to Cedric so Peter wouldn't make assumptions, but he shot Cedric a knowing look anyway and slapped his friend on the shoulder.

"Later."

"Later." To Hermione, Cedric said softly, "Do you really need to talk to me about a student?"

"Actually, yes," she said, not quite meeting his eyes. "We can just stand here so no one sees us go off alone. Does Peter, um -- does he know? I mean, you know, about . . . " she trailed off.

"He suspects. Scott's figured it out. Ed . . . he's still a bit clueless."

"Ron asked; I told him. I didn't want to lie. And if Ron knows, Harry will know." She paused, then added, "I don't care if our friends know."

He shook his head. "I don't, either. Now, what student and what's going on?"

"It's Harry, actually. He's -- Cedric, you can't tell anybody, understand? Not even Harry himself. Ron told me, and then told me not to tell anybody else because Harry doesn't want anyone to know, but --" She pulled at her hair. "I can't bear it -- what that woman's doing!" It came out soft but harsh.

"What woman? Umbridge?" He seemed very concerned and had stepped closer to her.

"Yes. But give me your word you won't tell, first."

He frowned. "Hermione, if she's doing something that would seriously endanger his health or welfare, I'm _honor bound_ to report it to Dumbledore. It's part of my job. And part of yours." He added that gently. "There are some things we have to report, even if it breaks a confidence."

"I know." She'd read her prefects' letter. "This isn't . . . it's awful, but it's not anything like that." She took a breath, then said, "She's been setting him lines for detention. At first, I didn't think that so bad. But it's not lines on parchment. She's got a magic quill that cuts the lines _into his hand_."

"Blimey -- a punishment quill," Cedric said, sucking in breath. "They're illegal. They've been illegal for . . . I don't know . . . half a century. Harry should report this. It might be enough to get rid of her."

Hermione looked him in the eye finally. "You know it wouldn't be. Fudge'll just pass some law that permits it, or overturn the old one."

He appeared frustrated but didn't, she noticed, argue. "All right," he said after a minute. "Listen -- find some solution of strained, pickled murtlap tentacles. Ask Angelina. As Quidditch Captain, she should have it. We get lots of scrapes and cuts playing and it's very effective. It'll help his hand, at least."

She nodded. "Thanks, Ced."

"Tell him to come and talk to me. I'll pretend I didn't know already."

She nodded again. "I'll see if he'll listen." And they parted for class.

At lunch as he passed behind where she sat at the Gryffindor table, his fingers brushed the nape of her neck beneath her pinned-up hair. The touch was brief -- he needed both hands to walk -- but it burned her like fire and put a completely dopey grin on her face. Harry and Ron stared at her quizzically until they saw who'd just passed behind her. Ron rolled his eyes and Harry frowned at his plate. Hermione left lunch early, and was a bit surprised when Harry followed her out, speaking to her softly, "Ron said that you and Cedric . . . The two of you, erm . . . " he trailed off, as if at a loss.

Hermione just nodded. "It's not public yet. He doesn't want to hurt Cho."

"Could've fooled me."

She stopped and turned to Harry, then grabbed a fistful of his robe and hauled him out into the courtyard. "I need to talk to you." When they'd found a spot under a tree away from anyone else, she sat down and he sat across from her. "Luna told me that Cho is saying that I stole Cedric from her, but that's rubbish; we never did anything until after they'd already broken up." It all burst out of her in one breath.

Harry's chin was set stubbornly. "What he did wasn't right. He just strung her along -- didn't even break up with her. She broke up with him. She told me."

Hermione frowned down at her hands where they gripped the book bag in her lap. "Maybe she just said the words first. I know he was planning to."

"How do you know what he was planning to do? You just said the two of you didn't do anything until after -- and I thought you weren't talking to him anyway?" His voice was rising slightly.

"Look, if you're going to go spare, I won't talk to you." She glanced down. "And I really need to talk to somebody, Harry. Somebody not Cedric."

His mood altered and the hard glint left his green eyes. "Sorry. All right, talk."

"We made up on Sunday. It was a stupid fight about house-elves. Well, maybe not so stupid, but I know he was going to break up with Cho because he told me then. But we didn't do anything -- honest." He'd held her hand for a moment, but that was all. "We never meant this to happen and I didn't steal him from Cho." She glanced at Harry out of the corner of her eyes. "He never pretended he wasn't with her and I never tried to take him from her. We just . . . talked. He seems quiet, I know, but when he's interested in something, well" -- she smiled almost involuntarily -- "he can talk a lot. And as strange as it sounds, sometimes I think he's got the other half of my brain."

"There's a scary thought," Harry said, lips quirking up a little.

"That's how it started. We just . . . talked. For hours. We never ran out of things to say. Somewhere along the way, it turned into a bit more than friendship." She stared at Harry, feeling slightly helpless and hoping he'd understand. "You were the one joking this summer that we could break them up. You'd take Cho and I'd take Cedric. You can't be that upset Cho's free."

"Yeah, well -- he should've broken up with her when he got back here if he really wanted you."

She shook her head. "I don't think he knew what he wanted, or felt that breaking up immediately would be fair to Cho. He had to give her a chance."

"He said all that, did he?" Harry's voice was taking on that irritated tone again which signaled an advancing loss of temper.

"Not exactly." She frowned, unable to meet his eyes. "We didn't really talk about Cho, Harry. We talked about everything _but_ Cho. I don't think he felt it was appropriate, and I didn't ask. Well, not much. I did ask him about the Yule Ball. And, um, you might find this part interesting -- he didn't have a crush on her when he asked her. He just did it because he was tired of being chased by other girls and the two of them were friends. They had a good time at the ball, so they started seeing each other afterwards."

Finally she looked up and eyed Harry thoughtfully. "You know, if you'd asked her first, I think she might have gone with you." She shrugged with one shoulder. "I'm not sure how much they ever really liked each other."

"She was his treasure in the lake."

"Yes, well -- I was Viktor's. I suspect Bagman, Crouch and Dumbledore were looking for someone nearby who each champion cared enough about to worry over a bit. You weren't still seeing Parvati, and Fleur didn't stay with Roger, so they picked more accurately for you two. For Cedric and Viktor, they defaulted to girlfriends. It's not that Cedric didn't care for Cho, but . . . " She shrugged again, unsure if she really believed her own rationale or was just trying to justify their altered feelings.

"Anyway," she went on, "I know you talk to Cho." Harry blushed at that. "Tell her . . . tell her I didn't steal him. Not on purpose. And I think he tried to make things work with her. That's why he didn't break up with her immediately. And _we_ tried just to be friends, like I am with you."

"But you're more now."

"I suppose we are." She put a hand over her mouth to conceal a giggle. "He's never actually _asked_ me. We just assumed it. Like I said, we seem to share a brain sometimes. But we're not going to make anything public yet and embarrass Cho. Also -- don't tell her we're together, all right? That's only for you to know."

'Maybe you should just tell people the truth."

"And you think they'd believe us? You _know_ me -- and Cedric. You'll believe me if I say we didn't do anything, and didn't mean this to happen. But after everything else being said about him right now, Ced doesn't need this, too. It's better if we wait until it all blows over. I wanted you to know because . . . well, you're my friend. And if Cho says anything to you, I wanted you to know what really happened," she finished lamely.

Harry frowned and appeared to think it all over. Finally, he said, "I'm happy for you -- I mean that. But I still think Ced wasn't very good to her. He should have just come right out and told her."

Hermione didn't reply. Cedric probably should have, but she also didn't think _Harry_ had a great deal of room to criticize. Instead, she reached out to take his bandaged hand and unwrap it to examine the thin bright red lines**: **_I will not tell lies_. "This makes me so angry," she said.

He tried to pull the hand back but she wouldn't let him, rewrapping it herself. "Yeah, well, there's nothing anybody can do about it."

"Tell Cedric, Harry. I'd suggest telling Dumbledore, or McGonagall, but I know you won't. At least tell Cedric."

"What d'you think he could do about it? He's got no more power over her than we do. And he might go to Dumbledore whether I want him to or not."

She shook her head. "He wouldn't. As long as you weren't, you know, threatening suicide or something -- that we have to report -- he wouldn't tell if you asked him not to."

"I still don't see the point."

"So he'd know." Finished with the bandage, she looked up at him. "He may not have any formal power over her, but someone besides Ron and me needs to know what she's doing. Somebody with a bit of authority."

"You and Ron are prefects; that's a bit of authority. And after that article in the _Prophet _last night, you think anybody's going to believe him any more than us?" Harry's lips had thinned. "Whether or not he wants to be, he's stuck in our corner now."

Hermione breathed out softly at Harry's cynicism. "He wants to be. He couldn't have made any other choice, not and be Cedric." Then she added, "And if he's in our corner, then you should tell him what Umbridge is doing to you."

"Maybe," Harry conceded. It was probably the best she could hope for just then. She'd pester him again later if he didn't.

* * *

On Thursday, Cedric met with Dumbledore again after dinner. The Headmaster had sent him a note to come to the third floor, hall of armor, and Cedric had to admit a bit of disappointment (at least to himself). The armor gallery wasn't the sort of room he'd had in mind, but beggars couldn't be choosers.

When he reached the gallery, however, it was nothing like he remembered. Gone were the suits of armor that had lined the walls and the air of medieval chill. In their place were overstuffed couches in various states of comfortable broken-in-ness, stacked with pillows and throws. All the House colors were represented, and on the long walls hung tapestries with each of the House crests. One end of the hall opened on the trophy room, and the other was hung with a tapestry bearing the Hogwarts' crest itself. Plush rugs covered the stone floor and the cobweb-ridden torch sconces had been replaced by brass-tooled lamps on tables and two charming candled chandeliers. Long enough for two fireplaces, the room's couches had been grouped around one or the other. There were also proper tables and chairs for studying.

He gaped like an idiot and Dumbledore watched, smiling. "I found your idea inspiring, Cedric, and perhaps long overdue." He gestured around him. "What do you think?"

"It's . . . brilliant," Cedric replied looking all about. "Absolutely brilliant -- and more than I expected." He turned back to Dumbledore. "Thank you, sir. If I may ask -- why this room? I didn't mean you had to move anything." Much less decorate it so sumptuously, although Cedric suspected it had been far easier for Dumbledore than it would have been for him.

Dumbledore merely gestured to the far end of the hall. "I thought it appropriate to place the Hogwarts' common room next to the room that honors Hogwarts' students, past and present."

Cedric grinned. "Thank you again."

"Would you like me to announce the room's opening tomorrow at dinner?"

"Actually . . . no." Cedric had been thinking about that. "Under the circumstances, it might be best if this spreads by word of mouth."

"As you wish." Dumbledore executed a small bow. "I entrust the room to your care, Mr. Diggory." And he left.

Cedric spent the next fifteen or twenty minutes simply examining the place. The Headmaster had walked a fine line between something too extravagant to use and something too bare to appeal. The furniture was comfortable rather than fashionable. Every couch seemed to have come from a different era and style, ranging from the late 1800s to something from the 1980s. The hogpodge was rather charming, and Cedric wondered if the castle had some sort of old furniture store that Dumbledore had plundered? Not only were the couches a mix of styles, but a mix of House colors. After circling the room twice, he plopped himself down on a black couch with loud yellow cushions near the east marble fireplace and pointed his wand at it. Logs stacked themselves inside and the fire lit, crackling loudly in the empty hall. Cedric watched it and pondered how best to spread the word.

He was still sitting there half an hour later when three heads poked in the doorway. "What the hell is this?" Peter asked. "And where have you been? We've been looking everywhere for you."

Grinning at them, he gestured expansively. "Come in. Actually, I'm glad to see you. I was just thinking about heading down to the Sett -- ask them to come up here."

"Where'd the armor go?" Ed wanted to know, winding among the furniture and tables.

"Moved."

"What _is_ this place?" Peter asked again, wandering behind Ed. Scott just stood near the door and looked around at the walls, hands on hips. "Did you do this?" Peter went on.

"No -- Dumbledore did. I just asked for it."

"_What_ is it?"

"A common room."

"Looks a bit . . . big, mate. And don't we already have one of those?"

"It's not ours," Scott explained.

"It is yours," Cedric replied. "It's just not Hufflepuff's."

"That's what I meant."

"It's not what you said," Cedric told him, smiling. Then, grabbing his crutches, he got to his feet. Turning a little so he could see Ed and Peter as well as Scott, he announced, "This is the _Hogwart's_ common room and it's for everybody. Remember what the Sorting Hat said? I did something about it."

"Umbridge is gonna kill you, mate," was Scott's serious assessment. Then he gave that blinding grin. "I love it, me! Bloody brilliant revenge!"

"Not just revenge," Cedric said. "The school's needed this. There's been no place but the library, the great hall, or outside to meet if you've got friends in other Houses. It tends to discourage people from _having_ friends in other Houses."

"You think people will use it?" Ed asked.

"I hope so."

"You'll get Hufflepuff," Peter said. "And probably some of Gryffindor with Hermione."

"More likely with Harry," Cedric corrected.

Scott snorted and Peter just shook his head. "_Hermione_," Scott emphasized.

"You may as well give up pretending," Ed advised.

Even Ed knew? "I'm not that obvious!" Surely.

Scott just laughed at him. "You failed at 'sneaky,' Ced. At least for this, and with us."

Cedric was a bit offended. He thought he did sneaky quite well. The other three must have found his expression amusing because they all burst out laughing. "Granger has you completely bewitched," Peter told him. "We decided to count, this morning, how often you mentioned her at breakfast." He glanced at Ed. "What was the final total?"

"Sixteen times." And they went off into gales of laughter again.

"Besotted!" Peter declared. "Just ask her out, for goodness sake, so the rest of us can get some relief."

Annoyed, Cedric glared back. "First, I think it rather crass to ask out one girl two days after breaking it off with another. Second, I can't believe you counted!" He was torn between indignation and astonishment.

Peter wiped his eyes and got his laughter under control. "To hell with being crass. Cho's not going to forgive you for months. _Please_ don't wait that long. We can't take all this mooning around after a Gryffindor."

"I'm not mooning around." They just laughed harder. If he hadn't required the crutches, he'd have crossed his arms. "And I'm not asking her out yet."

Scott feigned choking, Ed shook his head and Peter just walked over to slap his shoulder. "Then go snog her in a cupboard, but _please_ do something about it, right? You need a girl, Ced. You're a right moody git unless you've got one."

"That Diggory Charm never fails when it comes to pulling in a girl," Scott pointed out.

"Piss off," Cedric said, thoroughly put out. It did absolutely nothing to quell their amusement.

Dousing the fire in the fireplace, they all went down to the Sett. "I need everybody," Cedric said once there, propping himself on the edge of a table in the common room while Scott, Ed and Peter dispersed to round people up. They rarely called a whole-House meeting and he was sure several were missing, in the library or elsewhere, but soon the room was packed with Hufflepuffs on chairs, couches, or the floor. Around them pressed the stone walls of the Sett, covered with its bright paintings and tapestries, and the old wooden wine racks -- used now as small cubby holes for personal items such as spare quills or parchment, or to pin up notices. It felt close and cosy, and they waited to see what Cedric had to say, their faces turned up to him expectantly. He was struck by the collective power of their faith in him, and hoped he wouldn't let them down. The badge on his chest weighed heavy.

"How many of you remember the gist of the Sorting Hat song?" he asked them.

About three-quarters raised hands.

"And how many of you were angry over what it said about Hufflepuff?"

That time, every hand went up. "We're not bloody doormats!" Zacharias Smith called from his spot off to the side on a yellow couch arm.

Cedric grinned. "No, we're not. We're the House that got it right from the beginning."

Complete silence followed and he lowered his voice to confide, "We know the secret." He paused. "We stand or fall together -- and I mean _together_. The rest of them don't understand that, not like we do." He glanced down at the first years gathered on the carpet to his left. "Don't be ashamed to be Hufflepuff, ever. Helga didn't take 'the rest.' She took _everybody_. People say our house has no distinction. That's a lie. We have more variety than any other because we recognize it's necessary. We can't be all hands or feet -- or heads or hearts. It takes all kinds. We throw no one out, reject nobody, and every voice has the right to speak here. If you belong to the Sett, you belong. End of story. The only thing we ask is that you show the same loyalty. Betrayal isn't something we forgive."

He looked back then to the rest of them. "We need to teach that to everybody else now -- especially now. A snake's invaded our home and the only way to keep her at bay is if we're united. And not just against her. You've heard, I'm sure, that Voldemort is back."

There were indrawn breaths all around at his use of the name and Smith burst out, "We've heard that _you've_ said he is." As usual, he was the one to vocalize what at least some of the rest were thinking. "But that's all we've heard. Why do you think so, except that Potter and Dumbledore say it?"

"Are you calling Ced a liar -- ?" Ed asked, turning on Smith. They'd never got along, either on the Quidditch field or off. Now, Peter put a hand on Ed's shoulder, but Cedric wasn't sure whether it was to hold him back or urge him on.

"It's a fair question," Cedric replied to halt a fight. "As for why I say so -- I saw him myself. You can call me a tosser or a drug-addled idiot if you wish" -- there were a few snickers at that -- "but I _saw_ him, Zach. He's alive again." Whispers were racing around the room and more than a few faces appeared anxious. "It _is_ frightening," he went on, addressing them all once more. "It's easier to believe he's _not_ back, to believe the Ministry's lies. They're scared, too; that's why they're trying so hard to convince everyone there's nothing to worry about. They don't know what to do either.

"But it's creating _exactly_ the atmosphere You Know Who wants. He makes people afraid, suspicious of each other -- divides them. Then he attacks when his targets are alone.

"In Hufflepuff, we don't abandon each other. And there's no House he fears more than ours -- yes, really. He hates Gryffindor -- but he _fears _us. Funny to think on, isn't it? He fears us because we do know the secret. We stand together. And we -- together -- are stronger than he is."

That earned him the start of applause but he held up a hand. "That wasn't a pep talk. I'm telling you an important fact. Voldemort's Death Eaters stay with him because they fear him, not because they love him. Love and loyalty isn't something he understands. We do, and we need to remind the rest of them. It's not enough just to stick together in the Sett. We need all the Houses now**: **everybody. Remember that Helga took everyone, and she never meant us to reject the rest, even if they think they're better than we are. She meant us to embrace them -- Ravenclaw, Gryffindor, and -- yes -- Slytherin."

The mutters now were darker; they didn't like that idea so much. It was time, he thought, to tell a little secret. He held up a hand again and the murmurs died away. "You think Slytherin despises us -- and we despise them. You think a Slytherin could never love or respect a Hufflepuff, right?"

They were watching him, curious, but not suspecting.

"My mother was in Slytherin."

Dead silence. They looked at each other, flummoxed. All but the youngest had witnessed last year how his mother loved him. "That's right," he said. "_Slytherin_ -- and my father was in Gryffindor. Here I am in Hufflepuff and I've never doubted I was sorted into the right House. It is possible, you know, for the Houses to work together_. _Voldemort" -- gasps -- "and Umbridge, too, expect us to pull apart. We in Hufflepuff can't let that happen. We know the truth. We have to hold together, or they can isolate and attack us.

"We've become the guardians of this school. The rest of them may not think we're clever, or brave, or ambitious enough -- but it's up to us to save them."

So that had sounded pompous, but this _was_ the pep talk part. He needed them to believe in their own worth.

"We're the _strong_ House, you see. We may not always come in first, but we'll be the last to go down. We're _not_ the school doormats. We're tough. Stubborn. _Powerful_. Most of all, we're _united_. And Voldemort is scared shitless of that."

That got a few laughs and he resettled himself. He had their complete attention. "There is a room -- a new room -- in the castle. It's a common room for all of us -- every House. The Hogwart's Common Room. And I need you to haul everybody you call a friend from a different House in there. Show them how to be comfortable with people who aren't like them -- how to belong. How to be united. Make them feel welcome. I _need_ you, badgers. Don't let me down, all right?"

And he trailed off into silence. There was some shuffling. "Where is this room?" Ernie asked.

"Where the hall of armor used to be. Third floor, near the trophy room." He grinned. "I don't think it'll be hard to recognize when you get there. You can go and look now, if you like."

People glanced at each other, then, somewhat to Cedric's surprise, Susan Bones rose to her feet and headed for the exit. "Well, _I _want to see, at least."

She started a mass exodus. Hufflepuffs trailed behind her like chicks behind the hen. Cedric watched them go, but didn't follow. Ed, Peter and Scott had come over. "Think it'll work?" Peter asked.

"I have no idea, but it's the best I could think of."

Ed was looking a bit wistful. "She's a brave bird," he said.

Cedric, Peter and Scott all turned to him. "Who?"

"Susan," he replied, as if they were daft. Cedric and Scott exchanged a grin.

"Well, you've been up there to the room," Cedric said.

"Why don't you go with them?" Scott suggested.

"Make sure they don't get lost," Cedric added.

Ed tilted his head. "Maybe I should."

"Go on." Peter pushed at him. Ed went. As soon as the door was shut, leaving the three of them alone in the room, they sputtered into laughter. Cedric felt relieved to be among the ones amused this time, not the focal point of it.

* * *

Hermione diligently avoided Cedric all week because when they did pass in the hall, big, silly grins stole onto their faces and she feared they'd give themselves away if they risked anything more. Gossip about him and Cho continued to run rampant, but by Friday, it slipped in favor of whispers regarding a 'Hogwarts Common Room.'

"What the ruddy hell is a 'Hogwarts Common Room'?" Ron asked as they tramped back to the castle after Herbology. "There's no such thing."

"There is now," said someone behind them -- Ernie MacMillan. Ron's voice must have carried, as Harry, Hermione, and Ron suddenly found themselves interwoven by Ernie, Hannah and Justin. "It used to be the hall of armor," Ernie went on. "Now it's got chairs and couches and tables for studying, and a big board for notices -- just like all the other common rooms but about three times their size."

"Why would we want another common room?" Harry asked.

"Haven't you ever needed to study with somebody from another House, but Pince chased you out of the library?" Hannah asked. "Or you just wanted to visit with somebody when it was raining outside -- but you couldn't go to their room and they couldn't come to yours?"

Harry shrugged. "Not really."

"I have," Hermione said. "I had that big project in Arithmancy last year with two Ravenclaws and a Hufflepuff and we had an awful time scheduling meetings." The idea of a school common room sounded rather overdue to her.

"Couldn't you just use a classroom for that?" Ron asked.

"Well, we could -- and did -- but then we had to schedule the classroom, too. It was quite a mess."

"See?" Hannah said. "You won't ever have a problem like that again. Come up after dinner. Justin's mother sent him a big tin of popcorn and he's promised to show us how to roast it over the fireplace."

And Hermione experienced one of those odd moments of cultural disconnect. They happened less frequently now than in her first years, but still cropped up occasionally, born from a casual comment. Glancing at Hannah, she said, "Haven't you ever had _popcorn_ before?"

"Nope," Ernie replied. "I've heard of it, sure, but it's kind of an American thing, isn't it?"

"They don't exactly go to cinema," Justin pointed out to her. "So they're a little behind on some stuff." To Ernie, he said, "You can get it in any grocery shop, you know. It's not _exotic_. Couscous is exotic, not popcorn."

"What's couscous?" Hannah asked.

Hermione could see Harry grinning and shaking his head.

After supper, Harry had to go to his final detention with Umbridge, but Hermione and Ron headed upstairs with Dean, Seamus, Neville, Ginny and -- to their surprise -- Luna Lovegood, who appeared to have attached herself to them as they'd left the Great Hall.

The room was noisy with talk, both fireplaces going and -- as promised -- Justin was attempting to show his friends how to make popcorn in an old-fashioned, long-handled iron popper held above the flames. She wondered where on earth he'd found _that_? An antique shop?

She was watching the adventures in corn popping when she heard a soft voice behind her ask, "What do you think of my version of fighting back?"

Turning, she found Cedric standing there. He wore one of his positively devilish grins, and his raccoon was perched atop his head. It made her break out in giggles. He always looked so ridiculous with Esiban balanced up there, but she'd come to understand that Cedric found looking ridiculous amusing -- as long as it was on his own terms.

"This was your idea?" But as soon as she asked it, she realized it must be. It had 'Cedric' written all over it.

He just nodded. "We shouldn't talk long," he said, glancing around. "I wanted to tell you last night when you reported, but you came in with a bunch of other people."

"I've been trying to do that."

"I noticed." He raised an eyebrow. "Might be a bit of overkill."

"Better safe than sorry." She surveyed the chattering people. "It's like a party in here."

"That was the idea. It'll calm down later. Unfortunately, the party involves only three Houses. Got an idea how to lure in the fourth?"

"You want Slytherin?"

"We need Slytherin."

She sighed, because he was right. "I'll think about it." Looking at him once more, his face all alight with the success of what he'd managed so far, she couldn't help but grin, too. "Have you had popcorn?"

"Have I . . . what?" He appeared completely confused.

"Had popcorn?" She nodded to Justin, Hannah, Ernie and Susan.

He followed the direction of her nod. "Oh -- that. Yes, I've had popcorn, but it's not a very Wizarding thing." Shifting his weight to balance on one arm, he reached up to pull Esiban off his head. The raccoon dropped from his shoulder to the floor and scampered off, weaving among people, some of whom squeaked in surprise when they realized it wasn't a cat.

"You've never been to the cinema, then?"

He smiled at her. "No, I haven't. Although I do know what it is."

"Would you like to go sometime? I mean, I don't know when, but . . . sometime?"

"Are you asking me for a date, Granger?"

"Rather vague timing for a date," she replied, eyes avoiding his. It seemed less like they were flirting this way. They were just standing here, talking, several feet between their bodies.

"I tell you what, I'll go to the cinema with you if you'll come to the first Hogsmeade weekend with me. And that _is_ asking for a date."

Surprised she looked around, but he wasn't looking at her, either. "Are you sure that's wise?"

"I've been told I failed sneaky. And I need to put an end time on this charade. It'll have been a month by then, more or less."

Her common sense was telling her to turn him down but her mouth said, "Yes, I'd love to go with you."

If possible, his smile turned even more luminescent.

* * *

"Hey, I heard about the new common room," Harry said, slipping in beside Cedric at the Hufflepuff table for Sunday lunch. Cedric was, for once, eating alone. "I hope it gives Umbridge indigestion."

"Me too," Cedric replied, turning back to his soup. He hadn't missed the bandage on Harry's hand and remembered what Hermione had told him. "What happened to you?"

"What?"

"The hand."

"Oh, um, nothing."

Cedric stopped eating to stare at him. "Really, nothing," Harry insisted. "I hurt it playing Quidditch."

Frustrated, Cedric returned to his soup; he couldn't force Harry to tell him. "Listen," Harry was saying. "Two things. First, before I forget, Ginny insisted that I tell you Tuesday is Hermione's birthday."

Startled, Cedric dropped his spoon into the soup bowl. "Tuesday! I can't get anything by Tuesday!"

"Well, uh -- she wouldn't expect you to know, so why does it matter?"

Cedric just stared at him; was the kid really that dim when it came to girls? Maybe there was a reason Potter didn't have a girlfriend. Cedric shook his head. "She'll be, what -- sixteen?" He hadn't realized she was that old, but felt relieved -- and less like a cradle snatcher.

"Sixteen, yes," Harry confirmed.

Cedric's mind raced, trying to think of something he could do at such short notice. After a moment, he realized Harry was still sitting there. "What was the other thing?" he asked, since Harry seemed to need prompting.

"Ah, well -- it's kind of stupid, really."

Cedric glanced over. Harry had his head bowed and was frowning as he played with the bandage around his hand. "Come on, what is it?" Cedric asked.

"Hermione had this mad notion," Harry began, then stopped. Cedric didn't reply but let the silence draw Harry out. "She says we should learn Dark Arts ourselves since Umbridge isn't teaching us a damn thing, frankly." Cedric still didn't say anything and after a moment, Harry stumbled on, "The idea of studying on our own might not be so batty but, um, she, um . . . shethinksIshouldteachit."

Cedric's eyebrows went up, but he still didn't reply.

"It's really annoying when you don't say anything, you know?"

"I'm waiting for you to finish."

Harry glared. "I can't teach it. What do I know? I wondered if, well -- if maybe you could?"

And that did startle a response from him. "Me?" He shook his head. "Are you out of your mind? I've no real skill in Dark Arts. Transfiguration, sure, or even Charms. But I barely scraped an O in Dark Arts for my OWLs and I'm just hoping to pass with an A in NEWTs. You're better at it than I am."

Harry frowned, as if not expecting that. "But you're supposed to be the best in your year."

"Not in Dark Arts, and I think Roger Davies could probably make a fairer claim to being the best in our year overall. Not all magic's the same, Harry," Cedric explained. "Hexes and jinxes are the opposite of charms. Most people tend to be better at one or the other. Doesn't mean you can't _do_ the other, but it's a bit like a see-saw, I suppose." He cocked his head. "You've faced Voldemort, and more than once. You can perform a Patronus Charm. I can't do that. And you were as much the Triwizard Champion as I was. We took the cup together, remember?"

Harry was shaking his head almost violently. "I had help. The fake Moody helped me. Then _you_ helped me."

"You told me about the dragons --"

"Yes, but Hagrid told _me_. You figured out the egg _yourself _and then told me, and you figured out the Bubblehead Charm on your own; I had help with the gillyweed. Half the time I didn't know what I was doing -- got by on plain luck -- and the whole thing was rigged so I'd win. The fact you tied with me _anyway_ makes you the real winner. That's why I told Dumbledore last summer that you should have the cup. You _earned_ it."

Cedric frowned. "Actually, the fake Moody told me about the egg." The praise made him uncomfortable, but he was also honest enough to realize that Harry had a point. Harry was quite clever and capable enough, but the age restriction had been set in place for a reason. Without assistance, Harry probably wouldn't have made it past the first task because he'd simply lacked the spell knowledge. "I still have no business teaching Dark Arts to fellow students. Scott's better at it than I am -- and you're better than Scott. You think well on your feet in a pinch. You showed that in the graveyard -- sheer _guts_, that's what I saw. I was terrified --"

"So was I!"

"But you didn't let it freeze you up. And that's not something anybody can teach you in a class. I don't think we ever really know what we'll do in a crisis until we're in one. You were able to keep thinking -- I just _over_thought. When we were together behind that gravestone, I couldn't make up my mind _what_ to do until you told me. Then I just followed your orders like a good little soldier." He smiled at the younger boy. "You saved my life. You're going to be quite something some day, Harry."

Harry was blushing, but also, Cedric thought, a bit pleased. "You saved mine later. And, well, you don't keep getting detentions from Umbridge."

Chuckling, he nudged Harry with his elbow. "We all have our skills, right? You face down dark wizards. I just stay out of detention."

Harry rolled his eyes, but the comparison had won the smile Cedric had hoped for. "So you _agree_ with her?" Harry asked. "Hermione, I mean?"

"I think the basic idea has merit, yes. View it this way if it's easier to swallow -- anything's better than sitting around reading that book, even if it's just to get together and practice what we already know."

"I'll think about it," Harry conceded.

"You do that." In the meantime, Cedric needed to think about birthday presents. Could he get a letter to his mother in time for her to do some shopping for him?

* * *

Aside from evening report, which she stubbornly continued to make in the company of others, Hermione didn't see Cedric again until Tuesday after supper. Tuesday, her birthday. Harry had given her a nice, useful book of household charms that she'd wanted badly but was really a bit expensive, Ginny had come up with pearl earrings that changed color -- and Ron had completely forgotten. That was par for the course, but he was full of pink-cheeked apologies and pretty autumn flowers (obviously picked from the field near Hagrid's hut) and a promise to do her rounds all week. Taking her rounds deprived her of an excuse to see Cedric, but it also didn't cost him anything, and she worried about Ron feeling financially inadequate.

"You going to the library?" Harry asked her after dinner.

"I hadn't really planned to. I'd thought perhaps we could study in the common room -- the _new_ common room."

"Well, uh . . . Ron and I were planning to get in a bit of Quidditch practice. So maybe you ought to go to the library after all."

Puzzled, she studied his face. "I could still work in the common room and when you're done -- "

"No need!" It came a bit too fast. "I, um, I promised Ron we'd do this and it might take a while. I know you don't care about watching Quidditch, so . . . "

Shaking her head, she threw up her hands. "Fine. I'll go to the library."

The library was crowded, as it turned out. When she entered, she spotted Cedric sitting at a large round table with friends -- all seventh years -- including a blonde girl she didn't know and two other boys besides Scott and Peter. The blonde girl was rather pretty with a porcelain doll face and soft curls, and she was clearly flirting with Cedric. Then again, he was free now as far as the rest of the school knew. She'd seen several girls orbiting him that past week, and it presented a sober reminder of who he was in the eyes of others. The breakup with Cho might have temporarily cast him in a negative light, but it had also made him available. And despite his crippling or the article in the _Prophet_, Cedric Diggory was still Head Boy, Triwizard Champion, clever and good looking -- in short, the most eligible seventh year male at Hogwarts.

And he was taking her to Hogsmeade in just two weeks. It left her with the same sense of unreality as the day Viktor Krum had finally worked up the nerve to approach her in the library, inviting her to the Yule Ball.

Cedric had seen her enter; their eyes met briefly before she scampered off to a sequestered desk where she could study alone . . . but keep him in her line of sight. Spreading her books around her, she concentrated on an essay for History of Magic, but stole glances at him over the desk top. She thought he knew it. His gestures had become more expansive, his quick grin wider, and he kept running fingers through his hair until it was a charming mess.

Then again, he might not be putting on a show for her. The pretty blonde sat right in front of him and the more Hermione thought about that, the more insecure she became. What if he changed his mind about her now that he was free again, and other girls -- girls his own age and much prettier than she -- were letting him know they found him desirable? Had he turned to her only because he'd thought those girls wouldn't want him any more, being on crutches? Obviously, the crutches were no deterrent for the blonde making eyes at him right now.

Hermione returned to her essay and tried not to look at him any more. Twenty minutes later, a miniature parchment plane sailed over the top of her desk, looped once, and landed neatly on her essay.

Startled, she looked around, but couldn't see anyone. Glancing towards the table where Cedric had been sitting, she found it empty. All the seventh years had left and several much younger students occupied it now. Baffled, she opened the tiny plane.

_Magical plants. 587.12_

There was no signature, nothing but a call number, yet she knew the handwriting. What was he up to?

Leaving her desk, she found the appropriate section and book. Tucked in beside it was a pink double tulip with a note tied to it. Laughing, she picked it up.

_Like my new trick? It won't go back, either. Put it in some water. Magical creatures. 973.21_

The lunatic. Smiling, tulip in hand, she went to the next shelf. A butterfly waited for her -- brilliant peacock blue and perched atop another note.

_I'm afraid this one will go back to its original form in a few minutes. I hope you like the original almost as well. Charms. 502.86_

What on earth was this about? She stared at the butterfly where it rested (a bit passively for a butterfly) on her fingers. As promised, within a few minutes it began to solidify and she found herself holding a blue cloisonne butterfly hairslip. Sliding the slip into her hair, she headed for the charms section. He couldn't possibly know what today was, could he?

As it turned out, the charms section was occupied and she dawdled until the other two students left, then hurried down to the 500s. It took a few minutes to find what he'd left this time -- just a bit of parchment slipped into a book's pages. But when she opened it, a small explosion of silver and gold stars shot out all around her, glittering like fireworks. She laughed in simple delight and looked down at what he'd written.

_I'd give you the moon and stars if I could. Transfigurations. Oversized, 500s_

This time, she found him, not a note. Propped on his crutches, he leaned up against a shelf, a small smile on his face. There was no one else there, but then, most people didn't bother with this corner. "Happy birthday," he said, handing her a small package.

"Who told you?" she asked, setting down the tulip to rip through the gold paper.

"Ginny, via Harry. But he didn't tell me soon enough for me to do much."

Inside lay a locket, gold like the wrapping. She sucked in breath and laid it across her palm. It was simple and dainty. "Is there anything in it?"

He shook his head. "That's for you to choose. It's for the lady to fill the locket, or that's what my grandmother always told me."

Smiling impishly, she reached up to snag several strands of his mussed hair, yanking it out. "Ouch," he said, but didn't otherwise protest as she curled it in her fingers, opened the locket, and tucked it inside. There was probably something more magical she could have selected, but this was what she wanted, and she could feel the silly smile that wouldn't leave her face. Handing it to him then, she turned her back and raised her hair so he could put it on her. "Hermione," he said, "I need both hands. I can't -- "

Horrified at herself for forgetting, she turned back to take the locket from him again. "I'm so sorry! I'm so thoughtless. I didn't mean -- "

"Shh." But he sounded sad. "I'd put it on you if we were sitting down."

Her error, however unconscious, sapped the sparkle, turning things awkward and coldly real. He'd never be able to walk down a hall holding her hand, or embrace her standing up without magical aid, or put an arm over her shoulders casually as they strolled -- things other couples took for granted.

To change the subject, she asked, "When's _your_ birthday?" It had to be soon, or he wouldn't have been able to enter the Triwizard Tournament last year.

"Next Wednesday," he said.

Sooner than she'd expected, but at least she hadn't missed it. "We're both September babies then."

"So we are."

They stared at one another and, gradually, the heat seeped back between them. She could hear her own heartbeat and his eyes were black in the dim light. They changed like the Scottish sky -- clear and light when he was happy, but stormy when some strong emotion took him. He wasn't watching her eyes but her mouth, and she knew that look. Viktor had done the same when about to kiss her.

Except Cedric wasn't kissing her. He was just . . . standing there, as if he didn't know what to do next. "Do I have to issue you an invitation?" she asked, brows arching.

"An invitation to what?" For such a clever boy, he was sometimes clueless.

"Kiss me, you dolt."

His eyes flicked up to hers and now they were alight again with laughter. "Bossy, aren't we, poppet?"

"Don't call me poppet."

His grin was positively wicked now. "But I like it -- it suits you." He'd leaned in further, mouth just an inch from hers.

"It sounds ridiculous."

Annoyingly, he moved back instead of closer -- still grinning. "So what do you want me to call you?"

"Hermione?"

"Everybody calls you Hermione." He leaned close again. "I want something that's just _mine_."

"How possessive."

He pulled away once more, damn him, and looked down at her with raised brows. "What? You're not mine?"

She blushed. "I didn't say that. But are you mine? You've had a fan club all week; the girls fancy you."

"Jealous, Granger?"

"Should I be?"

He leaned back in and she really wished he'd just kiss her. She could feel his breath on her lips as he said, "Not in the least. Why do you think I asked you to Hogsmeade? Maybe they'll leave me alone when they see I'm already very, very . . . very . . . taken."

And she felt his mouth brush hers, faint as butterfly wings. It almost wasn't a kiss, but it shook her from the roots of her hair to the ends of her toes. Then he was pulling away yet again. "Don't _do_ that," she said, reaching out to grip the back of his neck and yank his head down forcefully. This time, there was no almost touch. His mouth hit hers hard; he'd nearly overbalanced and had to recover himself. Then she forgot about books and lockets and nicknames, and everything, really. Cedric Diggory knew how to give a kiss, all lips, a little tongue and complete immersion in the moment. It was very different from kissing Viktor. (And maybe she shouldn't compare them, but couldn't help it.) Viktor had kissed like a Seeker, and she was the Snitch -- elusive, precious, delicate . . . but his goal. His passion had overwhelmed, even if she'd never felt pressured to give him more than kisses. She'd felt flattered, swept off her feet, but not quite his equal, really.

Cedric kissed like it was a conversation -- give and take, exploratory, sensual, even a bit sloppy because he wasn't thinking of how it looked, only how it _felt_. He tried things that might have made her laugh -- like sucking her tongue or nibbling her lower lip -- but which turned her inside out instead. Cedric kissed like somebody who wanted to be kissed _back_.

The kiss could have gone on longer but -- to her complete shock -- she heard, "Pince alert!" behind her and jumped away, spinning about. It was Peter, standing in the aisle behind them. He disappeared again, leaving them to themselves.

"Look busy, Granger." Cedric had turned to the shelves.

She bent to examine the lowest one on the opposite side even as Madam Pince stalked around the corner, eying them suspiciously. But she was used to seeing Hermione in the library, and was probably used to seeing Cedric there, too, so she said nothing and passed on. Hermione let twenty breaths pass before speaking again. "I don't believe you had someone standing guard! Was he _watching_ us?"

"Of course not! But would you rather be caught snogging in the stacks? Pince likes me, but I don't think she'd like that. She's a bit of a prune."

"Cedric!"

"Well, she is!"

Giggling because she felt too blissful to stay annoyed with him, she stood again. He appeared as happy as she, and bent one more time to brush her lips with his, but close-mouthed and brief. "Been wanting to do that for ages, you know," he confessed.

"Same here. But you're an awful tease about it."

"And you're a bossy little thing."

"You like me bossy," she said, lips curled.

"You like me awful."

They parted then and she returned to her studies, but kept reaching up all evening to touch the locket, or her tulip, or her mouth. It hadn't been her first kiss, but it had been the one she'd wanted the most. It only occurred to her later when she returned to the Gryffindor common room to find Harry and Ron working at the table that Harry must have been in on it, too. He was grinning at her. "Nice locket."

Rolling her eyes, she sailed past both of them and up the stairs to her dormitory.

* * *

**  
Notes: **Despite what I said about defaulting to actor appearances, Harry's eyes are _green_. Rowling emphasizes it too much to be ignored in favor of Dan's blue eyes. The library cataloguing system is Dewey Decimal. I figure they're a bit old fashioned there, so they're using neither the UKMARC or the new MARC 21.


	14. Subrosa

  
Without rounds to give her a reason, Hermione didn't see Cedric again to speak to until Sunday. They were forced to content themselves with notes -- a lot of notes, in fact. Mostly these consisted of a few lines jotted down back and forth on the same piece of parchment, which they passed in a ridiculous number of ways. It became a game, and the running conversation was sometimes sweet, sometimes silly, and sometimes skirted the edge of ribald. The once-removed nature of notes let them write things she didn't think they'd be able to say face to face . . . at least not without blushing terribly.

_What do you want for your birthday?_, she wrote to him on Thursday morning, slipping the note into his pocket when she passed him in the hall. _And just so you know -- I don't take your locket off, even in the bath._

The parchment appeared magically in front of her at lunch. _Not even in the bath? __That provides some interesting mental images, you know, Granger. Oh, to be that locket! As for my birthday -- do you want the clean or the not-so-clean version of what I want?_

Beneath that, she scribbled, _You are a naughty boy. I need suggestions not suggestive wisecracks, Mr. Diggory. I'm not really very good at thinking up clever and creative presents. Unlike you. I'm afraid I'm too practical._

To which he answered, _I like you practical. And we won't comment on my varying degrees of naughtiness, but I'm glad you liked my presents. As for what I want . . . a picture. Of you. I have none._

A picture of her? She tried to avoid cameras . . . at least to be in front of them. She didn't think she photographed well and the only recent pictures she had all showed her ducking her head or raising a hand to ward off the camera lens. But if he wanted a picture, a picture was what he'd get, so she pulled Colin Creevey aside and asked if he'd be willing to take a few pictures of her 'for a friend.' Colin said he'd be happy to, and they set out for the cloister at sunset where he proceeded to pose her like a doll, telling her what to do and snapping almost two dozen shots. "It usually takes a roll of film to get one or two good ones," he explained, "even with Wizarding photographs." On Saturday, he brought her three. "These are the best of the lot." She thanked him profusely and took them all. To her surprise, she looked halfway decent. Colin had come a long way from that shutter-happy first year.

On Sunday, she took her books, and Harry and Ron, upstairs to the new Common Room to study. After more than a week, it was no longer a curiosity and not as heavily frequented -- and Slytherin remained conspicuously absent.

She was reading over Ron's essay, making corrections, when the sound of Cedric's clumping walk made all three of them look up. He sat down in the fourth chair at the table where they worked, beside Harry and across from her. "Hey, Ced," Harry greeted him. Ron just nodded, and Hermione's face burned hot. Cedric's own face wore high color, but he wasn't outright blushing.

"This is probably a useless question but I'll ask anyway. Any of you friends with anybody in Slytherin?"

"You're kidding, right?" Ron asked.

"Actually -- no. In order for this Common Room idea to work, we really do need representation from all four Houses. Otherwise it just makes the House divide that much more obvious and works against us. It's exactly the story the Sorting Hat warned us about."

"You took that Sorting Hat song _seriously_?" Harry asked him.

"I did. And so should you. We need Slytherin -- or at least some of them."

"Why? Who wants anything to do with that pack of liars and wankers?"

Under the table, Hermione kicked Harry. Hard. "Ow!" Harry said, clearly uncomprehending as to why she'd kicked him.

Cedric, however, shot her a glance. "You're forgetting two members of the Order are from Slytherin, Harry." He spoke softly.

"I don't trust Snape --!"

"Dumbledore does."

"Dumbledore can go hang." Then, abruptly, he remembered the _other_ Slytherin member of the Order, and his face flushed to rival Hermione's of a moment ago. "And, well, what I said doesn't apply to your mum."

"You know, I'm not fond of the House any more than you." Cedric's voice was hard, although he was clearly trying to keep both his cool and his perspective. "My point still stands that we need at least some of them to reach across the divide. But they won't cross unless we reach first."

Before he could say more, a hush spread over the room and they all looked around. Standing in one of the entrances was a short, squat figure. Umbridge. Everyone stared at her as no teacher yet had come to the Common Room to the best of Hermione's knowledge. "Madam Toad," Cedric muttered, which won a spurt of giggles from Ron and Harry. Normally Hermione would have taken issue with a student -- especially the Head Boy -- making fun of a teacher. But Umbridge didn't count.

The woman entered only a few steps into the room and looked all around before spotting the four of them on the far side below the Gryffindor crest tapestry. Cedric, Hermione noticed, made no attempt to distance himself, and the smile Umbridge gave them made Hermione's skin crawl. But the woman said nothing and withdrew just a moment later. "Good riddance," Harry said, but Cedric's expression was worried.

Without thinking, Hermione reached across the table to lay a hand on his. He glanced at her. "She can't do anything," she said. "_Dumbledore_ gave you permission. And you can't think she wouldn't have heard about the room, Ced."

"No, I was counting on it, actually." He squeezed her hand briefly, then removed his from beneath it and sat back. Conversation had resumed, sputtering to life around them like a choked engine. "I'm just worried because she didn't try to do something about it right now."

"Why?" Harry asked, dumbfounded. "Isn't that a good thing? It means she can't think of a reason to shut it down."

"Can't think of one _yet. _If she'd tried now, it would've been a knee-jerk reaction -- not very well-considered, and easier to block. She's going off to think of something better, and it'll put me on the defensive." He shook his head. "Nobody wins wars like that."

"You're really scary sometimes, mate," Ron told him. "But he's right, you know." Ron spoke to Harry and Hermione. "In chess, if you're forced to play defensively, that's a bad sign. Well, unless you let the other fellow put you in that position on purpose so he thinks you're on the run, but really you're not, and you turn the tables and . . . " Ron trailed off as the rest of them laughed at him, even Cedric.

"You may just have given me an idea," he said to Ron. "Thanks."

"Any time," Ron replied, managing to look both stunned at the praise and rather pleased with himself.

Cedric remained with them for a while, studying too, and Harry and Ron seemed to regard him as a potential source for easy answers as much as Hermione -- but he didn't co-operate. "Look it up," he told one or the other several times. "Try the _index_." Finally, they stopped pestering him.

After he left, Hermione realized he'd slipped a parchment note into one of her books. Pulling it out, she opened it:

_ Poppet,_

_ Lunch tomorrow? Same window? Miss talking to you in the flesh._

_ --Ced_

Ron had leaned over to glance at it, too -- more in idle curiosity than anything -- before she slapped it to her chest to hide the words. "He calls you _poppet_?" Ron asked -- quite loudly.

Harry looked up. "_Poppet?_"

Both of them burst out laughing. "Shut it," she hissed, shoving the parchment into a pocket of her robe. So of course they insisted on calling her 'poppet' for the rest of the evening.

* * *

Cedric had left the Common Room intending to drop into his own room before heading down to his office for evening report. He was stopped by a rather hesitant voice behind him. "Mr. Diggory?"

The use of an honorific surprised him a bit. Only the teachers called him 'Mr. Diggory' -- or Hermione when she was teasing him. Turning on his crutches, he found the tiny first year with the black curls looking up at him. Rose Something-with-a-Z. He was reminded of Ron's amusing, if not very polite "midgets" from the Welcome Feast. He kept his smile firmly in check when he said, "You can call me Cedric, Rose. It is Rose, right?"

She had piercing blue eyes and now they went wide in astonishment. "You know my name?"

"I remember it from when you were sorted. It's a pretty name." He didn't tell her that he only remembered because he'd seen her earlier on the train platform and she'd been the last one called. It was sometimes useful if people thought he knew more than he did. "May I help you with something?"

She looked down at the toes of her patent-leather shoes. "I have a problem, and wasn't sure who to go to. I tried talking to Hannah but she didn't seem to understand -- not trying to get her in trouble, though -- and, ah, when you talked to us in the common room the other night, you, ah, didn't sound so scary."

The grin was getting harder to suppress. "I'm not scary, I promise. And I wouldn't assume you were trying to get anybody into trouble. What's wrong?" She was glancing around, as if unsure whether she wanted to talk in the hallway. "Come back in the Common Room," he told her. It hadn't been very full and he found them a corner away from other students; she sat down in a big wing chair while he settled on a green couch. She was so small her feet didn't touch the floor. "So, what's the problem?"

"I'm Jewish."

His eyebrows went up. Being Jewish was a problem? But she went on before he could ask her to clarify. "Next Wednesday-week is one of the High Holy Days -- Yom Kippur, the Day of Atonement. I'd like to take the day off from classes, but, well -- I have a test in Transfigurations. I'd make up any work, of course, but, ah . . . " she trailed off.

"Did you talk to McGonagall?"

"No!"

"Why not?"

"She's scary!"

He resisted laughing and tried to look at it from her perspective. McGonagall was strict, and severe in her methods and appearance. That she was also a marshmallow underneath was something one learned only over time. He hadn't been scared of her his first year because he'd known about her from his parents, especially his mother. Reaching for his crutches, he got to his feet. "Come on, Rose."

"Where are we going?"

"To talk to Professor McGonagall."

"No!"

"Trust me, all right?"

She didn't reply, just stared at him with those big blue eyes. But she followed as he left the Common Room for the tower that housed McGonagall's office and private apartments. On the way, he asked, "So tell me about Yom Kippur. What do you do? Besides not go to class?" He winked at her.

"Well, it depends on whether one's observant or not, Reform, Conservative or Orthodox . . . " She trailed off. "Do you know anything about Judaism?"

"I'm afraid not -- begging your pardon."

"No need to apologize. Most people here don't. I'm used to it. I'm not really practicing or it might be rather hard to keep kosher. My mother was worried about it. My father -- well, he's not Jewish. He went here."

"So your mother's a Muggle?"

"Oh, no. She's a witch -- or we call ourselves the _Mecubalim_. She was born in Israel and went to Harba de Mosheh -- that's the school there. It's much older than any school in Europe." And Cedric let her chatter, using his slowness at getting around (and exaggerating it a bit) to draw her out so she could relax as they walked. She'd apparently decided that his age and height notwithstanding -- and unlike McGonagall -- he was innocuous. The fact he was terribly curious and kept asking her questions probably helped. As with Chinese or Ojibway magic, the Hebrew version seemed to be built on very different precepts. By the time they reached McGonagall's office, he'd learned about Yom Kippur, the Superior Creatures, how her parents had met, what the letters of her name -- Rose -- meant in the Kabbalah, what her mother thought of England (too cold and bad food), and that Israeli chocolate was better than Swiss. In her opinion. It poured out of her in roughly that order of tangential ramble. She was utterly charming.

Reaching the professor's door, she fell silent, as if suddenly remembering why they were there. He gave her a smile. "Trust me," he said again, and knocked with his crutch.

It took some minutes before McGonagall, dressed in a nightgown and cap, opened it. "Mr. Diggory? What on earth -- is there an emergency?"

"We seem to have a small problem that you might be able to solve." He winked at her over Rose's head, so the girl couldn't see.

McGonagall's eyebrow went up, but he thought she might have got the message. "By all means," she said. "Come in. What's this problem?"

Cedric glanced at Rose, but she seemed too terrified to speak, and he wondered how she could be so loquacious one minute and then mute as a fish the next. Yet shepherding the little ones was part of his job. "Next Wednesday is the Jewish Yom Kippur, the Day of Atonement. It's customary to spend the day in reflection on one's actions for the year," he glanced at the girl, to make sure he wasn't making a botch of the explanation. From the mass of random details she'd given him, he'd tried to boil it down to the essentials. "Rose has a test in your class and was wondering if she might have an extension. She'd make it up either Wednesday evening after sunset, when the holiday is over, or the next day, at your convenience."

He stopped there to gauge McGonagall's reaction. She appeared mostly confused and gave him a look that said,_ When did you become the expert? _He took it in his stride, not wanting to explain he'd had a crash course on the whole subject in the past fifteen minutes, along with a lot of other things.

"I've never heard of Yom Kippur. Is this a . . . religious holiday?" McGonagall asked -- of Rose, not Cedric. It was her subtle way of telling him he'd done his job, now stop playing father figure.

Rose coughed. "Ah, yes and no. I mean, it is; it's a High Holy Day. But I'm not religious."

"So why do you wish to observe a religious holiday if you're not religious?" An edge had crept into McGonagall's voice.

"Because I'm a Jew," Rose explained. "My mother observes it."

"But you just said you're not a Jew."

"No! I said I'm not religious. Of course I'm a Jew!" Rose sounded both irritated and frightened and threw him a half-accusatory look.

"We observe Christmas," Cedric pointed out.

"It's become a secular holiday, Mr. Diggory." McGonagall shot him a quelling glance. "And it'sconnected to Yule, which _is_ a traditional holiday of ours. It's not about Christianity."

"It's part of our culture. This is part of her culture."

"I don't see the parallel. We exchange presents and eat rather a lot. A 'Day of Atonement' sounds like it serves a religious function to me." She looked back at Rose over the top of her square spectacles. "I must wonder if Miss Zeller has _studied_."

Rose appeared somewhere between furious and ready to cry and Cedric tugged at the back of his hair. McGonagall wasn't unreasonable normally, but she'd been teaching a long time and was quite good at smelling rats -- even when there weren't any present. "Things can . . . drift," he said, struggling for a way to close the gap. "What started as one thing becomes another. Would it be so bad if we did make a day to ask forgiveness of people we'd hurt in the past year? Forgiveness doesn't have to be about God. And Rose's mother was born in Tel Aviv; she grew up with these holidays. When she came here, she still kept them -- just as I'd keep Christmas if I moved to Israel. But my neighbors might assume I was Christian because, to them, Christmas is connected to Christianity even if it's not for me. For me, it's connected to _home_."

He just looked at her, willing her to understand. She, in turn, looked between him and Rose, and her expression softened. "You chose your advocate well, Miss Zeller. You may be excused from classes on Wednesday. But I will expect you in my classroom Thursday after your final lesson before supper to make up your exam."

"Yes, professor. Thank you."

"You're welcome." She watched Rose scuttle out, but set a hand on Cedric's forearm before he could follow. "You're sure she's not just having us both on?"

"If so, she just gave me the best set of unconnected facts that all make sense when you put them together. I think she's on the level."

McGonagall nodded. "I'll trust your assessment, Mr. Diggory."

In the hall outside McGonagall's office, Cedric got his reward -- a full body hug that took him by surprise and almost knocked him over, despite her small size. "I'll get you a whole box of Israeli chocolates!" she promised. He just laughed.

* * *

The next day, Hermione met Cedric in the appointed place beneath the Butterfly Woman, and almost before she was seated he had her by the waist, pulling her into an eager kiss. Startled by his fervor, she let him direct things and wasn't sure she had oxygen left by the time he let her go. They pressed foreheads together, giggling quietly and trying to recover enough sense to speak.

"I've been thinking," he said finally. "We should be seen together a bit more."

"I thought we were going to wait until Hogsmeade?"

"To go public, yes. But we can't just . . . show up there together. It'll look quite suspicious. We need to be seen together before that -- not as a couple."

"You're disturbingly devious for an honest, trustworthy Hufflepuff, you know that? Was 'be seen together' why you came to our table in the Common Room yesterday?"

"Not entirely -- but somewhat. You were with Harry and Ron. And whatever Scott says, I do devious very well." He grinned at her.

"All right, so we'll . . . be seen together more, but with other people around?"

"Exactly."

"It's not going to fool Cho."

He frowned and looked away. "Probably not."

She hesitated, then blurted out, "Cedric -- you should talk to her. Harry said she told him she broke up with _you_. You told me you were going to break up with her."

His frown deepened. "I was. I planned to go for a walk with her after lunch -- do it in private. She caught me in the Great Hall while I was eating. Things . . . didn't go so well. That wasn't how I meant it to happen."

"You should still talk to her. Tell her the truth. Don't leave her to make assumptions and wonder."

"Tell her what? That I fell in love with another girl?"

The startled expression on his face said he hadn't intended to admit that yet. She wondered if she should ask if he meant it, but chickened out. "Tell her that you tried, but after a summer apart it just wasn't there anymore."

"It wasn't there because of you."

"Is that the truth? Or did . . . this" -- she gestured between their bodies -- "happen because it wasn't there with her? If you'd felt about her the way you feel about me, there wouldn't have _been_ a 'me,' would there? Or should I worry every time you talk to Violet or Hannah or Mary or any other girl?"

She could see him chew that over. Boys could be remarkably thick at times. "I suppose not." Then he looked back at her, gray eyes steady. "But this -- what we've got -- is special." He laughed softly. "You make me feel like I've been hit by the Hogwarts Express."

Blushing, she ran a hand down his arm beneath his robes. "Likewise," she whispered. "I never thought I'd find anybody like you. Or if I did, that you'd look twice at me."

He lifted her chin. "Don't put yourself down like that," he said against her mouth. "I don't like it. You're insulting my girlfriend." It made her laugh through his kisses, then she settled down in his arms, resting her head on his shoulder. It felt safe there, which surprised her. Too independent, she'd never thought of herself as the sort of girl to need a boy's arms to feel safe, but she thought it less that she was a girl and he a boy, and more that she had someone she knew she could count on, someone she came first for. He'd said he'd fallen in love with her, and she thought she might have fallen in love with him too. If she wasn't precisely experienced with relationships, this one seemed to have traveled several miles past mere infatuation already.

She saw him again on Wednesday, his birthday, when she returned to doing rounds. He was a bit late to arrive for report and showed up in the prefects' lounge wearing a ridiculous paper crown on his head with **18** charmed to blink all around the circumference like the magical version of a scrolling message board. He was laughing with Peter, who'd come with him. Hufflepuff had clearly been using his birthday as an excuse for a party; Peter had cake icing on his chin and didn't seem aware of it. The other prefects gave Cedric a bit of a hard time and she watched, smiling, waiting for everybody else to leave. She wanted a few moments alone with him.

Finally the others departed, except for Peter, who lagged behind to be sure everybody was gone, then glanced from her to Cedric. "I'll tell them you'll be back in a bit," he said and left them.

She pulled a package from inside her robes, offering it to him. "Not nearly as clever as yours, I'm afraid."

He sat down on a couch and took the present; she sat beside him. Unable to resist, she plucked off the crown. "You have a penchant for wearing the most ridiculous things on your head. Raccoons, blinking crowns -- I dread to think what you'll do with paper hats from Christmas crackers."

"Oh, I love those," he said as he undid the paper -- quickly but more neatly than she had with hers. Inside were the pictures Colin had taken, set in frames that she'd found for them. His smile widened as he examined them. "They're good."

"I didn't break the camera anyway."

"Like I told you on Monday -- stop insulting my girlfriend."

"Cedric! I have terrible hair." She didn't mention the teeth, as she'd rather managed to fix those.

He just looked at her. "What's wrong with your hair?"

She blinked at him. Was he blind? "It's completely uncontrollable!"

He grinned. "I like it. But if you hate it so much, why not just cut it short?"

Her mouth opened and shut; she'd honestly never thought about that. "I don't want to." She just wanted it to lie sleek and glossy like Cho's.

"Then don't." He shrugged, unconcerned, and leaned over to kiss her. "Thank you," he said, holding up the pictures. The kiss thrilled her not because it was passionate or tender but because it was simple and affectionately offhand -- the kind of kiss given to someone who'd been kissed before and would be kissed again. And in that moment, she finally, truly felt like his girlfriend. Comfortable. She laid her head on his shoulder and he wrapped an arm around her. They just sat that way for a few minutes, not speaking. He was examining the top picture in the pile**:** the one of her smiling and waving at the camera, looking (she thought) a bit goofy, but it was the happiest of the photos Colin had made.

Finally he let her go. "I should get back."

"Me too."

She stood and waited for him to get to his feet. He'd slipped the pictures into the book bag he carried everywhere now even when he wasn't going to class, and she set the crown back on his head, found herself laughing at him. "What?" he asked.

"You. You're just . . . a very silly man sometimes."

"Monday you called me devious, today you call me silly -- doesn't sound as if you like me much, Granger."

Reaching up, she wrapped an arm around his neck and pulled his head down to kiss him soundly. His crown fell off and she caught it, putting it back when she was finished. "There. Does that convince you I like you?"

"I don't know. I could stand some more convincing."

Swatting his arm, she said, "Go! Shoo!"

Laughing, he started off, then glanced back. "Tomorrow. Meet me in the library after dinner, all right?"

She frowned. "After dinner in the library's a bit busy. I don't think we could trust that our table wouldn't be occupied --"

"I didn't mean there. I meant just . . . in the library. To study together."

She remembered what he'd said about being seen together sometimes, but she'd thought he'd meant with other people like Harry and Ron, or his friends. "Should we be alone -- ?"

"We'll sit on opposite sides of the table and behave ourselves."

It made her smile. "You? Behave yourself? I'll believe it when I see it."

In fact, he did behave. And the two of them orchestrated a few more casual public appearances over the weekend. After the second, Katie Bell and Angelina Johnson both approached her to ask (with a bit of envy) what was up with Cedric Diggory? "He's friends with Harry," she replied. "He's been helping me with Transfigurations." It wasn't a lie; he _had_ been helping her, but she giggled to herself after they departed.

Yet these covert games lost fascination on Monday when she overheard a conversation between three Ravenclaw fifth years sitting across the aisle from her in Arithmancy.

"-- a bit of a joke. Can't believe Dumbledore picked him for Head Boy over Roger. For that matter, I couldn't believe his name came out of the Goblet last year. The fact _Potter_ could tie with him makes it clear how feeble he is. Now he's Head Boy and we have to take him seriously? Not when he comes up with stupid stuff like a Hogwarts Common Room. Even Violet manages to make excuses not to hang out in there. He's _embarrassing_."

"Diggory got Head Boy out of pity, plain and simple," said a second boy.

"I don't know," said a third, looking dubious. "Everyone was cheering him on last year."

"That's cause Potter was the other option," said boy two. "I'll take Diggory above Potter."

"What I don't understand," said the first boy, "is why people fawn over him. He's only popular because he's handsome. He's not that clever, and he's not particularly nice unless you suck up to him. He wasn't even all that great a Quidditch player -- just got lucky that one time against Gryffindor."

The second boy laughed. "Yeah, and we smashed Hufflepuff in the next match. He had dismal strategy and it took Cho so long to catch the Snitch only because she was making cow eyes at him."

The arrival of Professor Vector cut off further discussion, but what Hermione had heard upset her so much she had a difficult time concentrating. She recognized envy and House prejudice for what it was, yet their cavalier dismissal of the Common Room idea worried her because after the first few days, the number of people who frequented it _had_ dipped. Nor had she ever seen Violet there. If Hermione had never heard Violet speak ill of Cedric, the Head Girl had been . . . scarce in his company of late.

What bothered Hemione most, however, was that she'd failed to notice these small signs, perhaps due to her infatuation and her pride in what Cedric had accomplished. Now, she wondered if he'd missed the signs too? Should she say anything to him, or did he have enough on his mind without hearing the snarky gossip of jealous Ravenclaw boys? Even in the short time she'd known him, she'd come to realize that Cedric wilted in the face of genuine animosity. He might struggle to ignore it, but others' dislike of him hurt. She who'd never been popular had learned young not to care so much.

So she watched for small incidents, and what she saw disturbed her. Hufflepuff continued to frequent the Common Room, but other House participation was minimal. What had begun as a grand idea had suddenly become a bit poncy. Nor did the aspersions stop with the Common Room. People began to make fun of Cedric himself in new, far more vicious ways. Once, she even spotted a Slytherin boy walking behind him down the hall, mimicking his drag-footed stride. Yet rather than rebuke him for the complete crassness, other students (and not just Slytherins) laughed behind their hands. She'd wanted to stomp over there and give the boy what-for but Ron had held her back -- and done it himself.

One morning when she arrived especially early for breakfast because she had work to do in the library, she found Zacharias Smith -- of all people -- ripping down a handful of bills that had been Stuck to the Great Hall doors. She saw the last before he got to it**:** a cartoonish sketch of Cedric with the crutches clutching a bottle in a bag, like a drunk. "What is this?" she demanded.

"What does it look like? I'm getting this shit down before Cedric sees it."

"No! Give them to me! I'll take them to Dumbledore, or at least to Professor Sprout!"

Smith turned to glare at her from under a lock of blond hair. "And what're they going to do? We don't know who's making them, so we just get them down before he sees them."

"This has happened more than once?"

"Fourth time," Smith said, balling up the parchment. "I come down early every morning," he admitted. "It's easier since Ced goes swimming."

Appalled, Hermione asked, "He doesn't know?"

Smith glared again. "Like he needs to know this? Get your head out of your arse, Granger. Slytherin's turned his Common Room idea into a running joke, and it's not just Slytherin -- Ravenclaw and even you people talk about him like he's off his face half the time." Sneering, he added, "Why don't you ask the Weasley twins? They get mileage out of it."

Her jaw dropped, and yet -- remembering how they'd made fun of Cedric last year -- she couldn't say she was surprised. She'd just hoped that in the wake of everything since, they'd stopped taking every opportunity to put him down. She was deeply disturbed that fellow students felt so free to ridicule the Head Boy in such a public way. It was almost as shocking as Zacharias Smith appointing himself to be Cedric's personal watchdog. Turning on her heel, she headed off. "Hey Granger!" Smith called after and she turned. "Don't tell Cedric." It was more of an order than a request, but she nodded.

Later that same evening, she hunted down the twins, who were consulting with Lee Jordan in the common room over their latest test results. "I want a word with you."

"Oooo," they answered, George adding, "We haven't been testing on anybody else, Hermione -- just us."

"This isn't about that! Zacharias Smith told me what you've been doing to Cedric. How could you! And after . . . after everything he did for Harry!" With Lee there, she couldn't discuss the Order. But Fred and George simply appeared puzzled and glanced to Lee, who shrugged. "People are making fun of him," she scolded, "and you're doing it too!"

Comprehension suddenly dawned on their faces. "Hermione," Fred began, "We're not doing anything to Diggory --"

"-- that we haven't been doing for six years," George finished.

"We can't let up on him now," Fred concluded and George nodded.

"Why?!" Hermione demanded, and her obvious upset drew the attention of Harry and Ron, who ambled over along with Ginny.

"Why what?" Ron asked.

"Diggory's catching dragon dung," Fred told his brother. "Or didn't you notice?"

"That Common Room idea -- it didn't go over so well," Lee agreed. "Well, at first it did."

"What changed?" Harry asked.

"Dunno, mate," George said.

"Cho!' Hermione snapped.

"No," Harry said quietly. "Cho won't go herself, but she still thinks the idea's golden. She's angry with Ced, but that doesn't have anything to do with stopping Voldemort. She believes us. And she's been encouraging Ravenclaws to go."

"It's true," Ginny added. "Michael said Cho's not saying anything bad about him as Head Boy."

"Just about _me_," Hermione said.

"Well?" Lee asked, half-laughing. "You stole her boyfriend." At Hermione's open mouth, he held up a hand to forestall her explosion. "Come on, Hermione. Half the school's just waiting for the two of you to stop playing games."

"Diggory's not a bad actor," Fred observed.

"Yeah, but Hermione here's never going to play Lady Macbeth, you know?"

She was aghast. Harry leapt in. "Who _is_ starting this stuff , then? Two weeks ago, the Common Room was full."

"We don't know."

"Malfoy, I bet," Ron said.

"Probably," George agreed.

"He's not clever enough to start it," Harry sneered.

Hermione started to disagree, then reconsidered. Much as she hated him, if she were honest, she had to admit that Draco wasn't a bad student, but not a particularly exceptional one either. Nor was he brave. He got by on an inflated sense of his own worth, his family's reputation, and a keen nose for opportunity. He didn't plan things; he took advantage of them. She didn't think him capable of a methodical plan to undermine Cedric, and was reminded of Umbridge's appearance in the Common Room a week before. "It's Umbridge," she said now.

"Umbridge hasn't said anything about him that I've heard," George told her.

"Or me," Fred agreed.

"That's because she's not saying anything in _public_ -- she's sitting behind the scenes, encouraging people to make fun of him and the Common Room too, and telling Slytherin not to go."

The others squirmed uncomfortably. "Hermione," Ron said, "Ced's a good bloke, but he's barking mad if he thinks Slytherin's ever going to set foot in that Common Room. Umbridge doesn't have to tell them anything; they're not going to do it."

"And we don't want them there," the twins added in unison.

"You know he's right!" she insisted.

"Don't know anything of the kind," George said.

"He's hitting the happy juice a bit too much, if you asked me," Fred agreed.

She stamped her foot and felt all the blood flood her face. "Stop making those sorts of jokes! They're not funny. They're _cruel_."

Ginny put an arm around her to calm her down. "They didn't mean it like that," she said.

"They still make fun of him when half the school's making fun of him!" Then to Fred and George, "I'd think you two might have the _decency_ to stop!"

Fred just shook his head but George explained -- with uncharacteristic seriousness -- "If we stop, Hermione, it looks like we think they're right. Would look that way to Diggory too. So we give him the same hell we've always given him."

"And he gives us the two-fingered salute, same as he always did," Fred added.

"And, well, if we've --"

"-- switched out a few Canary Creams --"

"-- with a few select puddings at lunch --"

"-- it made Diggory laugh."

"He didn't even give us detention," George finished.

"Made us banish the molted feathers, though," Fred added after a moment.

Hermione stared at them. She'd somehow missed that completely, and felt a wholly irrational rush of affection for the two, however frustrating they could be -- or however questionable their antics.

"Smith's got his knickers in a twist over nothing," Lee added.

"Still think Diggory's a bit of a straight-laced prat," Fred and George said together, as if unable to confess to actually _liking_ their classmate.

Satisfied for the moment, Hermione drifted away with Harry and Ron. This new underhanded sally from Umbridge reminded her of another topic she needed to broach with Harry. "I was wondering," she said to him when they were ensconced on the far side of the Gryffindor common room looking up potions, "whether you'd thought any more about Defense Against the Dark Arts . . . "

* * *

Cedric was well aware of what was happening. He knew his House was trying to protect him but it was all rather hard to miss, and like Hermione, he'd reached the conclusion that Umbridge probably lay behind it, which made it all the more imperative that he win the support of at least a few Slytherins. He and Umbridge were locked in a life-or-death struggle like an eagle with a poison viper in its talons. If he lost his bid to make the Common Room succeed, he may as well hand in his badge now; he'd never get his authority back.

He wasn't going to lose.

Dumbledore intercepted him after his last class on Thursday. "You have an invitation to dinner at the Three Broomsticks," the Headmaster told him. "I was asked to pass it along. Six sharp."

"In Hogsmeade? But --"

"You are of age," Dumbledore reminded him. "And while it isn't our habit to allow even seventh years to wander off and on the grounds casually -- especially not in these days -- there are exceptions. Have a good evening, Mr. Diggory." He started to walk away. "Oh, I nearly forgot. Your escort to the village will meet you outside the gate."

Hurrying up to his rooms, Cedric left his school robes behind and fetched out plain black ones. He didn't think it wise to call attention to himself as a student this evening. Esiban wasn't happy at not being released from his cage, and in a fit of remorse, Cedric decided to bring him along. "Now you behave yourself," he warned the raccoon, "or I'll have to spell you and I know you don't like that." Esiban scampered up his arm to drape himself over Cedric's shoulders.

Students were already drifting towards dinner in the Great Hall but his current _persona non grata_ status made it possible for him to duck out without anybody feeling a need to talk to him. It was a bit of a hike from the castle to the main gate, past the Whomping Willow and Hagrid's hut. After a long day and the stress of the past week especially, he decided to use the chair and Locomotor charm, however much he might disdain the charm normally. There was little point in exhausting himself.

As it turned out, his escort was waiting about halfway up the lane. "Remus!" he said, smiling as the other man came forward to grip his hands. "It's good to see you."

"And you. But you look tired, Cedric," he said honestly. At least he didn't linger on that, having noticed the raccoon. "Well, who are you?"

"This is Esiban."

"I don't think I've ever seen a raccoon outside photos -- it is a raccoon, isn't it?" Cedric nodded. "Did you have him when I was teaching here?"

"Yes, but he's nocturnal." Cedric pulled him down from where he was draped around Cedric's shoulders and set him on his lap. "You can stroke him, just hold your hand out low and let him sniff you first."

Man and raccoon greeted each other. "You're quite something," Lupin said to Esiban as Cedric fished out the sweets he kept tucked away in a pocket, handing one to Lupin, who offered it up. Esiban accepted it and scampered back to Cedric's shoulders.

"You're his friend now," Cedric said. "You fed him." Chuckling, Lupin paced beside him as he motored along. "What's this about?" Cedric asked.

"We'll explain when you get there. Suffice to say we didn't trust an owl." Lupin eyed him. "How's Defense Against the Dark Arts going?"

"Absolutely worthless. I really wish you'd stayed."

"Not possible," Lupin said, shaking his head.

"You were our best teacher, hands down," Cedric told him. "And that's not just my opinion. Everybody liked you."

"Not everybody." His voice was dull, then he smiled. "But I thank you all the same for the kind words."

They talked then of inconsequential things as they made their way out of the school grounds and up the road into Hogsmeade. Cedric pondered whether to tell Lupin about Harry's half-formed plan to study Defense Against the Dark Arts privately, but decided not to. Nonetheless, at one point he did say, "I wish you were nearer. There's so much I need to learn before taking NEWTs. Your help was the only thing that got me through OWLs with an O."

Lupin shook his head. "Half your problem," he told him, "is that you don't trust yourself enough. You're better than you think you are."

"I've no special talent --"

"I didn't say it was your best subject. I said you're better than you think you are. In any case, before you leave tonight, we have a few things to show you -- spells you should know, as much for Order business as anything."

As they'd nearly reached the Three Broomsticks, Cedric expanded his crutches, stopping the chair to get out and collapse it. Esiban clung to his shoulders. "You're being very mysterious about who 'we' are, you know," he said to Lupin, who smiled.

"Not intentionally. I assumed Dumbledore had told you." He gestured towards the door, waving it open for Cedric to enter.

Waiting inside near the bar with Rosmerta was a tall woman in regal purple. "Mother!"

She came to embrace him. "Come upstairs. Rosmerta has reserved a private room for us."

They went up and dinner was served almost immediately. Cedric gave Esiban a small platter with potatoes, bread and vegetables, and ordered him to stay out of trouble. Coming back to the table, he sat down between Lupin and his mother. "So what _is_ this about?" he asked her.

But she just pulled her wand and said, "Pay attention." Then pointing it into the air above them, she said, "_Muffliato!" _The very air around the table dulled. It didn't take much for him to recognize the spell that Dumbledore had used in St. Mungo's -- the spell he'd wanted to learn. It was followed by a small flick that undid it. "Now," she said. "You try." Pulling his own wand he made an attempt, but knew he'd botched it even before he'd finished. "No --" his mother said, "you didn't follow the wand motion. Attend."

It took five more tries before she was satisfied with the result, and he was reminded of why he disliked learning spells from her. She was even more of a perfectionist than he. Lupin had watched, reaching over only once to correct his wrist action. It had been rather more complicated than it looked.

"Now," his mother said when an acceptable Silencing spell was in place, "Umbridge. And this Common Room of yours." She cut her pork into neat bites. "You sent me an owl to ask both how to encourage Syltherin's participation, and also to learn if I knew anything useful about Dolores.

"The latter first. She was at Hogwarts' in my parents' day and despite being sorted into Slytherin, she's no pureblood -- although her Muggle ancestry is far enough back, she tried to pass herself off as one. I'm unsure if her school years overlapped with Tom Riddle's, but I believe they did. She would have been a fifth, sixth or seventh year when he first arrived, however."

"You think she may have been taken in by him?"

"Hard to know. Quite possibly. He was clever and handsome and adept at using it to flatter, and as I'll explain, she's especially susceptible to that."

"Wouldn't that make her more inclined to want to see an end to him?"

"Or more determined never to hear about him again at all," Lupin suggested quietly.

"Exactly," his mother agreed. "For Fudge, the survival of the Dark Lord means a challenge he's ill-prepared to meet. Fudge is a bumbling incompetent."

Although he'd heard her opinion on Fudge before, Cedric snorted in amusement, as did Lupin. She took a bite of her meal, which she'd heretofore mostly forgotten.

"For Dolores, all this represents an opportunity, as well as an unhappy reminder. As you've gathered, she's far more cunning than Fudge. Nonetheless, she knows herself neither charismatic nor physically commanding enough for independent power. She recognized early that she'd need a puppet in order to make herself _l'éminence grise_. Fudge is her puppet." She looked him in the eye. "Avoid a direct confrontation with her, Cedric. She's been at this fifty years longer than you. Hubris won't serve you."

"I've been avoiding a confrontation, mother."

She nodded in approval. "Now -- as for her achilles heel. Dolores has certain blindnesses. The first is that, like many in my House, she dislikes Muggle-borns, considers them automatically of lesser ability. As this is not an attitude that Fudge especially shares, nor one of which the Ministry approves, she's become adept at hiding it. That said, she _is_ inclined to underestimate half-bloods and Muggle-borns. Your father's Muggle ancestry is too distant for it to grant you advantage."

"But Harry -- and Hermione."

"Precisely. She sees Harry as a threat for his fame. For himself, however, she isn't inclined to take him seriously. And from what I've heard of how he plays right into her hands" -- her eyebrows hopped -- "she might not need to."

"Mother," Cedric protested even as Remus said, "Harry's under a lot of pressure, Lucy."

"And far too inclined to let his emotions run away with him. I don't dislike him, Remus, but I could wish he might control his temper a bit better."

"He's fifteen, mum."

"Even so. I did not make those mistakes at fifteen, and neither did you."

Cedric dropped it. There wasn't any point in arguing with her about some things.

"Hermione may be of more use to you," she was saying. "She isn't famous, and is Muggle-born. Dolores will view her as an idle threat and an accessory. She won't be watching her so closely as you. Therefore, use yourself as the decoy and let Hermione spearhead any actions."

Cedric resisted smiling. His mother made all this sound like some sort of spy adventure.

"Now, the second thing about which she can't see clearly involves non-humans and half-breeds -- though I'm not sure how much use that will be. Still, I mention it; knowledge is always valuable. As with Muggle-borns but even more so, she regards non-humans as unworthy of serious consideration. Her run-ins with goblins have caused the Ministry no little embarrassment in the past and her prsent anti-werewolf legistlation . . . " She shot Lupin a glance. "Let's just say it borders on inhumane, not merely repressive.

"The final thing . . . " She paused and folded her hands together, chin resting on them as she watched him. "She has a weakness for the flattery of handsome young men, the more clean-cut, the better. I understand her current favorite at the Ministry is Percy Weasley, but the Ministry -- and Percy -- are rather a long distance away from Hogwarts."

Cedric almost choked on his bite of potatoes and even Lupin coughed. "Mum!" Cedric said. "I can't . . . _flatter _that creature -- even if she'd believe it."

"There are many ways to use your attractiveness, Cedric, but you'd be a fool to ignore it. It's a pity you made it clear to Fudge so early that you oppose him. Otherwise, you might have been able to manipulate her quite handily."

"I couldn't have done anything but oppose Fudge! I couldn't betray Harry."

"Of course you couldn't," she snapped, annoyed with him, "because you wear your heart on your sleeve. Nonetheless, I think it still possible to gain some advantage. No, be quiet and listen," she said before he could get his mouth open. "You'll need to walk a fine line between offering temptation and depriving her of what she wants."

Lupin stared at her with his mouth caught mid-chew and Cedric himself had no idea how to react; his face felt frozen. She glanced between them both and threw up her hands. "Oh, please, gentlemen, may we dispense with the prudery? Cedric, you're as bad as your father -- no, worse, I fear. Now listen to me -- you're an extraordinarily attractive boy with the kind of charm that appeals to women of all ages. I may be your mother, but I'm hardly blind to your effect on women. Molly Weasley practically simpers when she talks about you."

"Lucy!" Lupin said.

"It's not an insult, Remus. I quite like Molly. She's very sensible most of the time. Nonetheless." She looked back at Cedric. "Don't flirt with Umbridge; it won't work. And avoid blatant rejection that might humiliate her. Instead, flirt _around_ Umbridge. Show her your charms and let her _wish_." She leaned over the table to hold his eyes. "You want to render her unable to think clearly around you. That puts the control in your hands. Understand?"

He scratched the back of his head, trying to process what she'd just suggested. A part of him -- the cold part -- recognized it to be very clever. Heaven knew he'd flirted before, but never with anyone he hadn't genuinely liked as a person and he wasn't sure how he felt about using his looks as a lure on somebody he despised.

And that was the difference between them. He was _feeling_; she wasn't. She was thinking. What made it all the more disturbing was that this might actually _work_. He'd seen Umbridge staring at him, but had assumed it to do with her plotting to bring him low. Now her staring took on a whole new cast and he felt dirtied. What was the woman imagining? Did she have fantasies?

He couldn't even bear to think on that.

Reading his distress in his face, his mother reached across the table to grip his chin. "Look at me." He did. Her expression was much softer now, perhaps even a bit regretful. "You do not _have_ to do this, Cedric. It was only a suggestion."

And that was the woman who'd held him at night, sang him to sleep, spelled his cuts and bruises away, and taught him all she knew. Yet the other woman -- the one who'd just suggested he play Umbridge -- that was his mother too. It wasn't that these were two different personalities, but that his mother had two sides, and one of them scared him a bit -- more than a bit, if he were honest. He loved her, he admired her, and he feared her. He knew absolutely that she'd lay down her life for him -- and that she'd kill for him. She was beautiful and terrible and brilliant, and quite possibly the only one able to teach him how to fight Umbridge because she was the only one who really understood the lengths to which Umbridge would go. "I could do this?" he asked.

"You're my son," she replied, as if that should answer his question.

Lupin snorted where he sat with arms crossed, his dinner forgotten. Cedric didn't think he approved, but he also wouldn't intervene.

"What about --" Cedric cut himself off. Yet the cat would be out of the bag in two days. "What about Hermione?" Lupin snorted again, although this time, it sounded suspiciously like a suppressed laugh.

His mother's eyes hooded slightly. "Oh, I think Hermione might understand. Besides, who do you think I expect you to flirt _with _in Dolores' vicinity? Professor McGonagall?"

"I'll think about it," he said.

She shrugged. "As I said, it was merely a suggestion, Cedric. You asked for suggestions. That one would grant you the greatest results with the least danger to yourself."

No doubt. It just wasn't something he felt able to ethically stomach.

He decided to change the subject. "What about getting Slytherin to come to the Common Room?"

She shook her head. "My dear son -- in order to convince Slytherin to join your cause, you have to stop thinking like a Hufflepuff." She looked up. "I read your letter with the gist of what you told your house. Very touching. And nothing Slytherin cares much about. You _know_ better. Try again. Why should Slytherin join you?"

He glared at her. She wasn't giving him an answer, but requiring him to think about it. "I don't know."

"And that's your problem," she said. He continued to glare and she amended after a moment, "Well, part of your problem. Draco is the other part. But that is to your advantage, son of mine."

"I'm not interested in that advantage."

"Don't be idiotic. They won't follow you for some moral mirage of 'school unity.' They'll follow you if it's a practical necessity. If the Dark Lord wins, no one wins, and believe it or not, some in my House are perfectly capable of recognizing that. Yet Slytherin is isolated and forced to follow whoever has the greatest power -- because if they don't, that power might be turned against them. Do you think the likes of Blaise Zabini _enjoys_ being beholden to Draco? Whatever status Lucius holds among Death Eaters, Draco is not his father. He's weak, his ambitions unformed and short-sighted. Yet he reigns in Slytherin because he is a Malfoy. Some may genuinely like him, but I'd wager more don't.

"And that is what your Common Room offers Slytherin. A chance for enough outside support to challenge a leader they feel unworthy and forced on them."

She leaned in further, pushing aside her mostly untouched meal. "But understand -- my House will not betray _itself_. I was shunned because I dared to cross the line, and it was viewed as a betrayal. No more than Hufflepuff will Slytherin accept that. _Learn_ from my mistake, Cedric. If you attempt to divide Slytherin by wooing a few, you'll _unify_ them further against you.

"Instead, offer them an alternative -- a path to get the leader they _want_. A true leader."

"Mother, I'm not in that House. I'd never have been sorted into that House."

"I didn't mean you. You are Head Boy and no longer belong exclusively to any House. I meant a better leader from within. As I said, do not attempt to divide Slytherin. Instead throw your support behind a different leader. After all, the only person who can take down a Malfoy is another _Malfoy_."

He sat back, understanding her finally.

"_Stop running_ from that half of you," she said. "You are my son, and _I_ was the elder of my generation, daughter of the elder -- _not_ Lucius. _You_ are the heir -- not Draco. Whatever surname you took from your father, you are a _Malfoy_, Cedric. Son of Lucretia Aurelia Malfoy.

"And you're the only one who can dethrone Draco."

* * *

**  
Notes:** Thanks to Itay Avatalyon for all the info on Jewish magic; I made Rose's mum from Tel Aviv for you, m'dear; and to Mara Greengrass, for reading over Rose's section quickly when I needed it.


	15. Hogsmeade

  
_Where were you last night?_

She scribbled it on a bit of parchment and caught Ed Carpenter as he was leaving the Great Hall after breakfast. "Give it to Cedric, please?" Ed just nodded. Cedric's friends and hers had grown so used to playing owl, they didn't even bother to protest or complain any more.

Instead of sending a penned reply, he sat down beside her on the bench at the Gryffindor table at lunch -- although facing out instead of in, his crutches gathered between his knees. She looked up, startled. He'd never sat beside her before at a meal. "People might see . . . "

"Moot point tomorrow."

"True, ah, so --"

"I went into Hogsmeade last night," he said softly. "I'll explain later. Just wanted to apologize." He smiled. "I found out about the meeting only an hour and a half before I was expected and didn't see you on the way out. Should've thought to write you a note, though -- sorry." He slipped his arms back into the crutch braces. "I'll talk to you after report tonight, all right?"

As he stood and headed back to his table, she noticed both Angelina Johnson and Katie Bell watching from several seats away. Later as Angelina left the Great Hall, she bent to whisper, "Transfiguration homework my arse. I distinctly heard 'Hogsmeade.' We'll see who you show up with at the Hog's Head tomorrow."

Hermione wanted to protest -- he hadn't been talking about tomorrow. Except they _were_ going to Hogsmeade together tomorrow, and she suspected that whatever he'd been doing there last night was Order business and not to be generally discussed.

Angelina's mention of the Hog's Head, however, reminded her of what she'd wanted to tell Cedric the previous evening. After speaking to Harry on Wednesday, she'd collared several others to discuss learning Defense Against the Dark Arts on their own, and her list of interested parties kept getting longer. Just that morning, Ginny had told her Michael Corner was bringing friends from Ravenclaw and she began to worry how many friends of friends would show up, and how big the crowd might be.

Yet it was entirely on the spur that she issued her most difficult invitation of all. Coming out of Arithmancy, she practically ran down Cho Chang heading in. In the last few weeks, they'd done their level best to avoid each other, but Harry's 'friendship' with Cho seemed to be growing much like hers had with Cedric earlier. It was, Hermione thought, a matter of time before Harry plucked up the courage to do something about his crush on Cho (assuming he could figure out what _to_ do), and Hermione and Cedric would stop being hypothetical tomorrow.

It was time to face Cho, even if Cedric wouldn't. Taking a deep breath, Hermione refused to move out of Cho's way, although the other girl was looking at the ground and trying to get around her. "I need to talk to you," Hermione said.

Cho finally looked up, dark eyes hard. "I have class."

"So do I. This will only take a minute."

Cho breathed out. "All right." And she followed Hermione down the hall a little way where they couldn't be overheard. When Hermione turned, Cho started in even before Hermione could. "If this is about Cedric, I don't want to discuss him. I don't care anymore what the two of you do --"

"This isn't about Cedric. It's about Harry."

That silenced Cho and got her attention at once -- although she appeared even more defensive, if possible. "What about him?"

"He's going to teach Defense Against the Dark Arts." Cho's mouth fell open a little and she rocked back on her heels. "We're not learning anything in Umbridge's class," Hermione went on. "And I know you believe Harry -- and Cedric -- about what happened in the maze. You may be angry with Ced, but you've not said anything bad about him as Head Boy. And . . . thank you. Just thank you for that. It was very decent of you."

Cho laughed. It sounded a bit edgy. "What? You didn't think I could be decent?"

"I've never said that." Hermione felt her face grow hot. "I just wanted to thank you." She knew she was doing the right thing to speak to Cho, but it wasn't easy. Cho occupied the moral high ground here, even if she might have been milking it a bit. "But that's why I wanted to tell you about the meeting tomorrow. Whatever . . . whatever you think of me or Cedric, this goes beyond that. It would mean a great deal to Harry if you came, and it'd be good for you to learn how to defend yourself against You Know Who." She rubbed her forehead and avoided Cho's eyes. "So we're meeting at eleven in the Hog's Head to talk about how to study Defense Against the Dark Arts on our own."

Arms crossed, Cho asked, "It's Harry's meeting?"

"Sort of."

"You'll be there, I assume?"

"Yes."

"Cedric?"

"I don't know; I haven't actually spoken to him yet. Probably. There'll be a lot of people there though."

Cho fell silent, but only for a moment. "Fine. I'll be there. For Harry." And she started off.

"Cho." Guilt propelled Hermione to say something even if Cho had told her she didn't want to talk about Cedric. "I'm sorry about what happened. He didn't want to hurt you."

Spinning so fast it startled Hermione, Cho snapped, "How _dare_ you presume to defend him to me. That's just . . . " She couldn't seem to think of an adjective, and trailed off, pale brown skin dark with rage. "Let's get something straight. I'll come to this meeting for Harry, and I'll fight against You Know Who for Harry, and because it's right. But I don't _like_ you and I don't forgive you, or Cedric."

Hermione opened her mouth, but nothing came out and she felt close to tears even as she recognized she'd probably had this coming. Dropping her eyes, she said again, "He didn't want to hurt you, and neither did I. We never meant what happened to happen." Here, with Cho, Hermione couldn't bring herself to pretend at all, yet the protest she'd wanted to make to Cho for weeks spilled out of her in a breathless rush. "He never did anything inappropriate while he was seeing you, or pretended he wasn't dating you. He never kissed me or touched me. We just _talked_. That's all. He tried to stay loyal to you. I think he really tried --"

"And that should make me _feel better_?" Cho interrupted. "He _tried_ but couldn't bring himself to stand me anymore? That does _wonders_ for my ego, Hermione. Thank you! I'm the girl who just didn't measure up!" She stalked away, disappearing into the classroom.

Struck hard by Cho's final words, Hermione went to the girls' toilets and hid in one of the stalls. She didn't cry, just sat there, sick to her stomach and trembling. She wished she could believe that Cho had got her comeuppance, but the other girl had never been anything but nice last year, despite the fact she was pretty and popular and older. And now, she'd elected to stand by Harry -- and (despite everything) by Cedric -- when most of the school thought them off their rockers. Hermione could understand what Cedric had seen in Cho Chang, but wondered what he saw in her by comparison? Cho had called herself the girl who didn't measure up, but Hermione felt more that way at the moment and couldn't face Harry and Ron (or anybody else) in Charms. Later at dinner when both boys asked her where she'd been, she said she'd felt ill. She must have looked it, too, because Harry actually offered to let _her_ copy _his_ notes. It made her smile.

Still upset and subdued by report that evening, Hermione arrived early rather than late, then occupied one of the private desks in the prefects' lounge, studying. At one point, Violet Sykes left her office for a few minutes. Upon returning, she noticed Hermione and paused. The two of them stared at one another, then Violet disappeared back into her office. Hermione wasn't sure, but thought she might have shaken her head. She didn't see Violet again until all the reports were done and Violet left, spelling her door locked. Glancing at Hermione, she said, "You should go back to your common room."

"I will as soon as I finish this essay," Hermione replied without looking up. She was on her final conclusions and didn't appreciate being interrupted to be reminded to go to bed like a first year.

Violet looked now from her to Cedric's office and back to her. "I'm sure you will," she said.

It was the last straw for Hermione, who'd had it with all the assumptions and teasing -- good-natured or not. (And she didn't think Violet's particularly good-natured.) Slamming down her quill, she glared at the older girl. "You may believe whatever gossip or rumors you like, and if you really must know, yes, Cedric and I are going to Hogsmeade tomorrow. But tonight, I am not here to see Cedric; I am here to finish my Potions essay, _if_ you please."

Violet blinked and breathed out, glancing towards Cedric's office again, and Hermione was quite sure he'd heard the whole thing. When he appeared in the open doorway in his wheelchair a moment later, Violet said to him, "She's more honest than you are."

"You never asked me anything about her," Cedric pointed out, and Hermione couldn't tell if he were more amused or more annoyed. "How could I be _dis_honest?"

Violet just shook her head. "Never let the truth get in the way of the facts, Cedric?" And shouldering her book bag, she headed out, saying as she went, "I'd like to think I don't need to chaperone you."

"Sorry," Hermione said when Violet was gone, gesturing in frustration as she spoke, "but I've had it up to here with everybody staring and whispering and assuming." She picked up her quill again. "I really do have an essay to finish."

He rolled across to her desk but didn't interrupt her, just sat watching her write until, irritated, she put down her quill again. "Would you stop that?"

"Stop what?"

"_Staring_ at me!"

"I like to watch you."

"It makes me nervous. Go back to your office. I'll come and talk to you when I've finished."

Raising both hands as if in surrender, he turned the chair and did as she ordered. She knew she was acting snappy but her mood was so extraordinarily bad, she couldn't be arsed to care. Finished finally (if unhappy with her concluding paragraph), she packed up and went to knock on his door, although it was open. He was reading a book on plant transfiguration and making notes to himself -- and perhaps he'd be the one too busy now to talk. It'd serve her right for her temper, and that thought depressed her further. Yet he looked up and smiled, closing the book, and seeing him so quick to give her his attention made her feel guilty on top of everything else. "Having a bad day, Granger?" Dropping her eyes, she frowned at the stone floor beneath her feet. "Come here," he said and she obeyed. With a wave of his hand, the door shut and he pulled her onto his lap in the chair as if she were a child.

"I didn't think you were supposed to shut your door with a girl in here."

"I'm not, really. But the door won't scream if I do. Violet's will. She found it out by accident." He grinned. "She had some young Ravenclaw boy in there who'd wanted to talk in private. She shut the door and it went off like a siren." He laughed. "Scared us all to death, and a bit silly if you ask me. Do they trust the girls more, or less, do you think?"

"It's about a sullied _reputation,_ you know, not trust. The Wizarding World's a bit . . . old fashioned."

"What? You don't like my old-fashioned manners, Miss Granger?"

"I find your old-fashioned manners very charming, Mr. Diggory." She was smiling and amazed at how he could do that -- make her forget her irritations. Harry and Ron all too often only irritated her further. Now, she laid her head on Cedric's shoulder and let him hold her the way he did in the library on their rare meetings behind 'their' table. Passing notes was entertaining, and a bit thrilling, but words were no substitute for touch. After a few minutes, she raised her head and turned it at the same time he did. Their kiss came easy and without excess orchestration. They were getting better at reading each other's intentions. "Thank you," she said, pulling away.

"For what?"

"Making me feel better."

He smiled, a bit shyly. "I don't like to see you unhappy. I know that probably sounds . . . clichéd, but, well -- I don't."

She stroked his cheek, feeling the faint roughness of day-end stubble under her fingers. So fascinating, boys' differences. Even after five years of friendship with Harry and Ron, being with Viktor, and now Cedric, had taught her new things. He turned his face so he could kiss her palm, then pressed the tip of his tongue there, sending a shock through her. She yanked her hand away and his shy smile turned sly. He'd known exactly what effect his tongue would have, and sometimes that worried her a bit. He knew things she didn't -- probably a lot of things, and not just facts. She knew the facts, including what a boy looked like below the belt and how everything functioned. But she hadn't known that a tongue against her palm could send electricity streaking along her nerves. That was a different sort of knowledge.

A kind he had and she didn't.

She pulled away, putting distance between her body and his and he seemed to guess a fly had landed in the ointment because his sly, smug look disappeared. To change the subject (or rather, to introduce a subject in the first place), she asked, "So why did you go into Hogsmeade last night?"

"I met with my mother and Remus Lupin. It's a bit of a story." He pulled his watch out of his pocket to check the time. "Damn, it's almost eleven. This'll have to be short or we'll both get into trouble. Can we talk about my meeting tomorrow? It's not that urgent."

She sighed but he was right, and she climbed off his lap, comfortable though it was. "You'd better open the door, just in case."

"All right."

With a wave of his hand, it opened and she went to glance out into the lounge. No one was there. Coming back, she knelt down by his chair but didn't return to his lap. Frowning, he bent to hear her whisper, "Harry, Ron and I have been talking about, well, trying to study Defense Against the Dark Arts on our own."

"I know," he said, which surprised her. How did he know? "Harry told me. He said you wanted him to teach it, and asked me to do it instead. I told him it's not among my better subjects."

"Nor mine, either. It is Harry's."

"Exactly. So what did you decide?"

"There's a meeting tomorrow for a couple of us in the Hog's Head." Well, rather more than a couple, but she found herself reluctant to tell Cedric the number of people coming. "It's at eleven. We'll need to be there -- well, I'll need to be there -- is that all right?"

"Of course," he replied. "I'll go with you."

The way he made it sound assumed caused her to smile and duck her head. She'd hoped he'd react that way but hadn't been sure. She'd assumed he'd join S.P.E.W., too. "There's one other thing you need to know. I -- ah -- invited Cho."

"What?" He looked completely startled.

"She's becoming friends with Harry, and well, maybe a little more. She's been supportive of him . . . and of you, too. Ginny says that Michael says Cho never speaks badly of you as Head Boy."

He blinked, as if processing that. "Michael who?"

"Corner."

"Oh." He blinked again and scratched the back of his head. "You _talked_ to Cho?"

"Yes. Today."

"She didn't bite your head off?"

"Well, she did a bit." Hermione was blushing. "She's none too happy with us. And you should still talk to her. But this was important. For Harry."

"He really likes her?"

"Yes -- since last year."

He nodded, scratching the back of his head again. "I wouldn't be unhappy if she started seeing him."

"No?"

"Of course not. I'd like her to have somebody who'll really appreciate her." His expression turned rueful. "My guilt talking, I expect." His eyes met hers. "But it might be best if I'm _not_ there tomorrow. If she's there, and Harry, and you, and me -- it won't be a good combination. I'll have a beer with Peter, Ed and Scott while you're having your meeting. They'll be jealous if I don't do something with them. You can tell me about it all later. I still think it's a splendid idea."

She opened her mouth to protest, but didn't. She suspected his backing out had more to do with a fear of facing Cho, but he might be right anyway. "Would you come to the lessons?"

He was shaking his head. "Hermione, I don't know . . . "

"You need to work on things, too. You're not afraid of Umbridge are you? I've checked everything I can think of and there are no school rules against study groups, and --"

"Bugger Umbridge," he interrupted, startling her at the crudeness, and she felt immediately guilty for assuming that he -- of all people -- might be reluctant to defy Umbridge and the Ministry.

"Sorry, I shouldn't even have suggested such a --"

"I just don't think it would be a good idea to put you, me and Cho at the same table to study. And it's more important for her than for me."

"You've got NEWTs!"

"Hermione -- I know." His irritation was increasing, and she began to realize he'd been burying his own feelings in order to cheer her up. This couldn't have been a good week for him. " But Cho's a year behind me, and you're two years. I'm the logical one to opt out."

Abruptly, she rose to a kneeling position and hugged him. "If there were more people than just Harry, Ron, me and Cho, would that change your mind?"

She felt him shrug. "Maybe." He pulled his watch again and glanced at it as she let his neck go. "You should leave, poppet. It's late. I may not have denmates to notice what time I get to bed, but your situation isn't the same. People will ask questions about what you're doing in my office half an hour past report. I'll see you in the morning."

She got to her feet and he followed, expanding his crutches and collapsing his chair into his hand so he could pocket it. She was moving around from behind his desk, headed for the door when she heard a terrible hiss of pain behind her and turned in time to see Cedric go down, his right leg crumpling beneath him. She rushed back as he lay half on his side, his leg spasming so much even she could see it jerk. "Oh, no, oh, no," she said, completely at a loss as to what to do. "I'll fetch Madam Pomfrey!"

"No!" he said through clenched teeth. "Give it a minute. It'll stop." He'd dropped both crutches and was holding onto his leg, rocking back and forth a little as if that could help him bear the pain. He wasn't whimpering, but she could see the sweat on his forehead.

Abruptly, she remembered his pain potion. "Where's your Abdoleo?"

"Pocket of my robes."

She dug for it and got it open. He took it from her and drank -- more than usual -- then handed it back. She put it away and waited, letting him grip her hand in his, strong and calloused. Her fingers felt bruised from the pressure, but she didn't protest. After two or three minutes, she felt his grip relax and he'd unclenched his teeth. "Worse than usual?" she asked, trying to sound casual. In fact, she'd never seen an episode like this and wondered how often he suffered them.

"Pretty bad, yeah," he agreed, and glanced at her, a bit guilty. "Sorry."

"For what?" she asked rubbing his leg, more because she needed to do something than because she thought it would help. The real cause of his pain lay in the nerves not muscles. "You've nothing to apologize for, so don't. I just wish I knew some spell to make it _stop_." She could feel the tears prick her eyes, and wiped at them with a free hand. She cared for him, and he hurt, and she couldn't _fix_ it.

"Just having you touch me helps," he whispered, as if half afraid to admit it. He struggled to get his feet back under him. "I need to go -- and so do you."

"Nonsense. I'm walking you up to your rooms, and you're going there in the wheelchair. Don't even bother to argue. Then I'll fetch Madam Pomfrey, and you're not going to argue about that, either, understand?"

And he didn't argue, which worried her. She saw him up to his suite as promised, then fetched the Mediwitch and didn't get to bed until after midnight, yet between worry over the meeting tomorrow and Cedric's condition, she didn't sleep well. In the morning, she went directly to his room after breakfast, knocking. There was no answer and she'd almost given up, thinking he might already be downstairs, but the door opened when she was ten steps away. "Cedric?" She hurried back.

"I was getting dressed," he said. And indeed, his hair was still wet from the bath and he wore only his trousers.

She dropped her eyes from more skin than she'd been quite prepared for, muttering, "I'll wait out here. I just wanted to see if you were feeling up to the trip."

"I'm much better this morning, thanks," he told her, his tone amused. She didn't have to see his face (assuming she could get her eyes past his bare chest) to know he was grinning. "Why, Granger, you're blushing."

"Would you go and put some clothes on?"

"I have clothes on. I just don't have a shirt on."

She ignored that. "Go and get dressed before Filch reckons everybody who's going has left!" She finally raised her eyes again -- and indeed, they didn't get past his chest. It was a very nice chest, well-muscled from the exercise of crutches and chair, and swimming. He wasn't quick to shut the door either, she noticed. She didn't think he minded being admired, the peacock.

When he emerged five minutes later, he wore gray trousers and a bright blue fisherman's sweater that, somewhat ironically, matched her top -- but she couldn't get the image of half-naked Cedric out of her mind's eye, and thought he knew it. Like the tongue in her palm yesterday, it reminded her -- yet again -- that what she knew and what he knewweren't the same. But he gave her a very chaste kiss on the lips and asked, "Ready to face the gossip mongers, Granger?"

"I suppose. You're bringing your chair, aren't you? After yesterday --"

"It's in my pocket. Let's go."

* * *

There had been a few double-takes as they'd passed up and down the Hogsmeade pavements, but rather less whispering than Cedric had expected. Of course, that might have owed to the fact people weren't entirely sure whether he and Hermione were _together_ or just in each other's company like they'd been off and on for the past week. After all, they couldn't stroll down High Street hand in hand.

And that frustrated him. Enormously. When they'd had to suppress their feelings, then conceal them, it hadn't mattered. Now it did. He needed both hands to walk with the crutches, and when he went into the chair, he needed his hands to wheel it. Every time he saw another couple pass them by arm-in-arm, his resentment rose another notch. To make it worse, moving side-by-side was virtually impossible as his chair with its slung-slant wheels took up most of the narrow, old pavements by itself. She wound up pacing behind him most of the time, which made talking difficult. They tried a few shops, but doors proved too narrow without a Squeeze Charm, and the interiors too crowded or cluttered for him to navigate well. He kept running into things, not to mention there were steps and kerbs to get around. Any one obstacle he could deal with, but they piled up to the point where by the time eleven arrived, his mood was so dark he almost told her to go to her meeting and he'd see her later at the castle. Except if he did say that, she'd probably blame herself, and she wasn't the one making this a lousy date. What bright, clever, pretty _whole_ girl would want to put up long term with a boyfriend in a wheelchair? Nothing would ever be normal for him. He wasn't a catch. He was an awkward, crippled freak.

Hermione had picked up on his growing irritation but didn't know the cause of it -- because, of course, he was too humiliated to tell her, and he suspected she was blaming herself exactly as he'd feared. Her shoulders had slumped and once or twice, he caught her lip tremble, which made him feel awful and turned his mood all the more peevish. It became a nasty cycle and the only way he could think of to break it was to let her get rid of him for an hour. They stopped in the road outside the Hog's Head, where he'd arranged to meet Scott, Peter and Ed -- who were there waiting as promised. Along with a quite a crowd. Ed was talking to Susan Bones, who stood with Ernie, Justin, Hannah and Zacharias, not to mention Harry, Ron, the twins, all three Gryffindor chasers and Lee Jordan.

This was not the 'couple of people' he'd been led to believe she'd be meeting, and even as they stood there, Ginny arrived with three Ravenclaw boys Cedric vaguely knew, then Cho showed up with Marietta Edgecomb. Both the girls glared daggers at him until Peter moved in front of him.

Cedric was too busy being astonished -- and worried -- to care. And Harry looked almost as alarmed as Cedric felt. Reaching out, Cedric grabbed Hermione's hand to pull her to him. "Are you out of your mind?" he asked softly. "You can't go in there with this crowd. A handful of students sitting and talking at a table is one thing. But this? Umbridge'll think you're plotting a bloody revolution!"

"How would she hear about it?" Hermione asked, chin up, stubborn. He knew that look and it didn't bode well. Not in his current mood or hers. "Besides, as you can see, the idea was quite popular."

With great effort, he got his temper under control. "At least go somewhere busier."

"Why? This place is almost always almost empty!"

"Exactly. And students rarely go here. You'll stand out like a sore thumb. Go back to the Three Broomsticks. I'll talk to Rosmerta. Maybe she can . . . get us a room."

"No." Her chin rose another half inch. "This is where I told people to come and we're not all here, and how would they know where to go, and --"

"Bloody hell, Hermione! This is not meeting up for a butterbeer!"

The shy chatter of the other students cut off at that and he felt himself flush. He hadn't meant to make their clash the center of everybody's attention. She'd turned a brilliant scarlet and he had two choices**: ** stand by her or humiliate her in front of her friends. He might upbraid her in private, but that was between them, not everybody else. "Come on, let's go inside. We can't stand around in the street till noon. It looks bloody suspicious." With a wave of his hand, he opened the door. The other students hesitated, then preceded him inside, even Cho and her friend.

Hermione stayed outside along with Ed, Peter and Scott. "I thought you weren't planning to attend?" she asked, voice suddenly hopeful but dubious at once.

"Changed my mind," he muttered. "You didn't tell me your 'little' meeting was the size of a Quidditch match. You need looking after, poppet. You wouldn't know 'covert' if it bit you on the arse."

Her lips thinned and behind him, Scott muttered, "Ooo -- way to go, Ced. You are _not_ getting any hot snogging behind the broomshed after that crack."

"Shut up," he and she said together, which only made Scott laugh.

"Even when they're fighting they share a brain," he pointed out.

"Go on," Cedric told Hermione as they entered the pub. "We'll take a table on the other side of the room, keep an eye on things."

"We will?" Peter asked as Hermione stalked off. "As I recall, this place is none too sanitary."

"It's sanitary enough," Cedric replied, "if we order something with alcohol -- which is what I need about now." He rubbed his forehead. "How can somebody that brilliant do something so stupid?"

"You said it yourself," Scott replied as they found a table at a little distance from the group of students seated with Harry and Hermione. "She wouldn't know covert if it bit her pretty arse. Then again, after the show you two've given the school over the past month, I'd've reckoned you already knew that, mate."

"Piss off," Cedric replied.

The gray-haired barman seemed astonished to find his pub suddenly the focus of so much student attention -- and all at once. "He probably thinks there's some sort of wager on," Ed said, then rose with Peter to get them something to drink. Cedric was watching the crowded set of tables on the pub's other side. The door had opened and more students arrived -- five Gryffindors he barely knew and Luna Lovegood who, seeing him, waved to Hermione and drifted towards him. Beside him, Scott muttered behind a hand, "Loony alert. Coo-coo, coo-coo, coo-coo." Cedric kicked him under the table -- hard with the braces on. "Ow! Fuck!"

"Hullo, Cedric," Luna said. "You aren't here for the meeting?"

"I'm keeping an eye on things," he told her. "How are you?"

"Very well, thanks. Are you going out with Hermione now?"

He blinked at the Firebolt-fast leap of topic and Scott was struggling very hard not to laugh. Luna frowned at Scott. "What?" she asked him.

"Nothing," Cedric said before Scott could make an even bigger prat of himself. "And yes, I am."

"I thought so."

She drifted away then towards the table full of students. Scott said, "I don't know how you put up with her, mate. She doesn't have a screw loose, she's flat got six or seven _missing_."

Cedric watched her go. "She's not had a happy life. She lost her mum pretty young. I've told you before, lay off her."

"Whatever."

Ed and Peter had come back with ale. "I made him put a cleaning spell on the glasses," Peter said. "I don't think he appreciated it, but he did."

"What'd the Loony want?" Ed asked, looking over at the table where Luna had seated herself -- not far from Susan Bones.

"Stop calling her that. Her name is Luna. And she just -- "

" -- wanted to know if Romeo here had finally asked out Hermione." Scott was grinning.

"Did he tell her the truth?"

"Yup. She left."

"Thank God," Peter muttered. "She gives me the creeps."

Cedric shook his head -- they could be halfwits sometimes -- and busied himself cataloguing pub patrons**: **a strange assortment, but that seemed par for the course here. Just now there were two cloaked Yorkshiremen at a window table, a man wrapped entirely in bandages by the bar gulping firewhisky (and Cedric wondered what he'd done to himself to require the bandages or the stream of whisky taken neat before noon), as well as a veiled witch by the fireplace. Something about the witch set off alarm bells in his head. "What do you think of that woman?" he asked his friends, nodding towards her.

"That she's probably bloody ugly," Ed replied. "Look at that hooked nose."

"She's not looked at Harry's table once," he said.

"So? That's a good thing," Peter told him. "Everybody else staring is making me nervous."

"They're curious and not hiding it. The witch, though. She's watching without letting on." Cedric took a gulp of ale and kept his eyes on her. "And I'm watching her. Maybe I'll make her nervous enough she'll leave."

"That's not a woman," Scott said.

"What?" All three of them looked at him.

He tapped next to his eyes. "I know a woman when I see one --"

"You are so full of shite --" Peter began.

"I'm not joking around. _He_ doesn't move like a woman. That's a bloke trying to pass himself off."

"I think he's right," Cedric said. "Look at the hands. Pretty big hands for a woman."

The witch seemed to have realized the four boys were watching, but instead of making her nervous as Cedric had hoped, she just raised a hand to wave -- and make a slight gesture that Cedric recognized. Lupin and his mother had shown it to him two night ago. He coughed on ale. "Actually, we don't need to worry about the witch." The other three stared at him. "Just trust me on this."

"Why?" Scott asked.

"Please don't ask. Just . . . trust me. I can't tell you yet. When I can, I will."

And he would, but he had to get Dumbledore's permission first. The Order of the Phoenix wasn't a game, and if Voldemort had taken away his choice last June, that didn't apply to Peter, Ed and Scott. Yet a choice meant a _choice_, and they didn't have one if it wasn't offered to them. Cedric was coming to understand that he'd underestimated his friends -- perhaps because he hadn't needed them so much before. He could think of worse people to have at his back in a fight against the Dark Lord.

His attention and that of the other three were drawn back abruptly to Harry's table when they heard Smith's distinctive voice call out, "So why's Diggory over there, then? You say You Know Who's back, and so did Cedric the other night, but he's not over here, is he?"

"Somebody strangle that_ pathetic _excuse for a badger," Scott muttered, pressing the glass of ale to his forehead.

"He's not so bad, just a bit thick," Cedric said, then added in a voice meant to carry**: **"Bugger off, Zach. Can't you see I'm busy?"

"Drinking ale?"

"That's right."

"So why aren't you over here then? You think this idea _is_ cracked, don't you?"

"Oh, _fuck_," Scott swore softly and Peter had put his head in his arms.

"We may as well give up and go over there," Ed said. "He's just going to get louder. Besides, I'm sort of curious."

Cedric suspected it was more that he 'sort of' wanted to get closer to Susan, but they went to join the rest anyway. As they approached, Harry moved aside, nudging Ron too, so Cedric could maneuver his chair into a spot beside Hermione, cramped as it was. She stiffened -- still angry -- but didn't move her own chair away from him. Very deliberately, he laid his left arm on her chair, his hand resting on her back. If anyone had questions about where his loyalties lay -- or whether they were seeing each other -- he was answering. Beneath the table, he pulled his wand with his other hand and silently cast the Muffliato Spell his mother had taught him the other night. Perhaps he should have done it earlier but it would have been rather obvious, and he wasn't exactly sure how wide an area he could dampen anyway. He'd never seen it used on a crowd this size.

"Is it true that you can produce a Patronus?" Susan was asking Harry. Her question elicited a mutter all around the table and Cedric smiled to himself. Susan already knew the answer. She was setting Harry up.

"Yeah," Harry replied.

"A corporeal Patronus?"

Harry peered at her. "Er -- you don't know a Madam Bones, do you?"

Susan smiled and Cedric started to explain, but Ed beat him to the punch, declaring proudly, "Amelia Bones is Susan's aunt."

"So it's really true? You can create a stag Patronus?" Susan asked -- making her point.

"Yes," Harry said, and it elicited exactly the response Susan had known it would**: **impressed noises from the rest.

"Blimey, Harry!" Lee said, "I never knew that!"

"Mum told Ron not to spread it around." Fred grinned at Harry. "She said you got enough attention as it is."

"She's not wrong," Harry muttered and after the previous year, Cedric could empathize. He'd learned there was such a thing as too much attention.

The questions went on, flying at Harry, asking him to relate what he'd done in previous years. Harry answered simply and truthfully, with occasional input from others, some of whom Cedric didn't know although he was fairly certain at least one of them was the Longbottoms' son, Neville. Cedric kept his silence and let his hand move from between Hermione's shoulder blades up under her hair to stroke his thumb along the back of her neck. At first, she tensed, all irritated, but he kept at it until she relaxed back imperceptibly into him.

Their earlier tiff wasn't resolved, but he thought it might be forgiven.

Cho's voice piped up, distracting him. "And that's not to mention all the tasks Harry had to get through in the Triwizard Tournament last year -- getting past dragons and merpeople and --"

"Cedric did the same." But it wasn't Hermione who spoke, or even Harry. It was Zacharias Smith.

"Cedric" -- said Cedric mildly -- "can't produce a Patronus and has never killed a basilisk. I appreciate the support, Zach, but Harry's done more than me. And in the graveyard, he stood up to Voldemort in a duel. I didn't."

There were more murmurs. Harry was blushing and Hermione had turned to look at him, at once grateful but also a bit . . . dissenting, if he read that expression correctly. Before she could speak, however, Harry said, "Thanks, but the only reason I'm alive is that he wanted to make a show of killing me. You brought Dumbledore first, then saved me from Lucius Malfoy, who cursed you for it."

Cedric winced inwardly. Lucius had cursed him for a lot of things, rescuing Harry only a part of it.

"And look," Harry went on, almost stammering, "I . . . I don't want to sound like I'm trying to be modest or anything . . . but I had a lot of help with all that stuff . . . "

"Not with the dragon, you didn't," Corner cut him off. "That was a seriously cool bit of flying . . . "

"Yeah, well -- " Harry began but was interrupted again, by Susan this time.

"And nobody helped you get rid of those dementors this summer."

"No, no okay, I know I did bits of it without help, but the point I'm trying to make is --"

"Are you trying to weasel out of showing us any of this stuff?" Smith demanded.

"Here's an idea," Ron told him, leaning over the table, "why don't you shut your mouth?"

"Well, we've all turned up to learn from him, and now he's telling us he can't really do any of it," Smith protested. "I think Cedric should teach. He's older."

"We didn't come here to learn from Diggory," one of the twins snarled back. "And Harry didn't say he _can't_ do what he said he did; he said he had help. Or didn't you listen?"

The other twin had pulled something that looked rather long and dangerous from a Zonko's bag. "Would you like us to clean out your ears for you?"

"Or any part of your body, really, we're not fussy where we stick this."

"Bugger off," Zach replied.

"That's enough," Cedric said, diverting attention. "I'm not teaching Dark Arts. Harry knows more than I do about it and I'm just as interested in learning from him as the rest of you are -- maybe more so. After all, I saw what he did last June."

That brought silence and Hermione spoke nervously into it, "Yes, well, moving on . . . the point is, are we agreed to take lessons from Harry?"

Cedric raised his hand quickly. "I am." He wanted to keep this meeting on track and get them all the hell out of the pub. Perhaps Hermione was right that there were no school rules about groups of this sort, but Cedric didn't think Umbridge would do nothing if she learned what Hermione was up to here. It wasn't just a few people getting together to practice and research spells in private.

Yet no sooner did Hermione get down to the brass tacks of meeting times than new problems arose with scheduling. Gryffindor's entire Quidditch team was here as well as a portion of Ravenclaw's and Hufflepuff's including two Quidditch captains, and everyone was worried about practice times, Ed and Angelina loudly so. Cedric sat back and let Hermione handle them, with some pompous 'assistance' from Ernie MacMillan who declared these classes were the most important thing he'd do all year. Maybe so, but Cedric shared a grin with Scott and Peter; Ernie was also a bit full of himself.

Details partly ironed out, Hermione promised to resolve the rest, then retrieved a parchment and quill from her bag. He could feel her shoulders tight beneath his hand and began to rub the back of her neck again to calm her. "I-I think everybody should write their name down, just so we know who was here. But I also think we all ought to agree not to shout about what we're doing. So if you sign, you're agreeing not to tell Umbridge -- or anybody else outside this group -- what we're up to."

Almost before she was done speaking, one of the twins had snatched the parchment, signing quickly and passing it to the other. The parchment went round, but not everybody seemed to want to sign it. "I -- well, we're prefects," Ernie was saying, "And if this list was found . . . well, I mean to say . . . you said yourself, if Umbridge finds out --"

"You just said this group was the most important thing you'd do all year," Harry reminded him harshly.

"I -- yes, yes, I do believe that, it's just . . . "

"Ernie," Hermione asked him, "do you really think I'd leave that list lying around?"

"Give it to me." Cedric leaned past Hermione, hand outstretched to Ernie, who passed over the parchment. Cedric signed his name. "There, make you feel better?" He handed it back, and Ernie signed now without hesitation. So did everyone else, and the meeting broke up. Cedric and Hermione watched everybody go. Harry and Ron hesitated, as did Cedric's friends, but not receiving any encouragement from either Cedric or Hermione, they departed finally.

When everybody was gone, Cedric leaned in to pick up his ale glass. Butterbeer bottles littered the table, some only half finished. "I think that went well," Hermione said.

"The witch in the corner is in the Order," he told her softly. "The other three I don't know about. You weren't careful, Hermione."

She glared at him and shook his hand off her neck. "I was very careful." But he knew her well enough by now to know she didn't believe her own words.

"Hermione --"

"You only call me that when you're angry with me."

He smiled faintly. "I call you Hermione all the time -- just not when addressing you."

"You're avoiding the issue. And how did you know about the witch in the corner?"

"Actually, she's a he. And it was a hand signal."

"There's a hand signal?"

"Look under the table."

She did so and he demonstrated, appearing to flick something off his trousers but with only three fingers, thumb and forefinger forming an O.

"I couldn't change my plans midstream," she said. "I really had no idea it was going to get this large, but I think that's a good thing --"

"On one level, yes. But on another? The more people, especially unscreened, the more difficult it is to keep it under wraps -- and I'm pretty sure you didn't know everybody here. You need to cast a Fidelius Charm."

"I couldn't cast a spell that difficult yet, and isn't a Secret Keeper a bit much? I knew the core people; they vouched for the rest."

"Not a good way to work -- and I don't think I'm exaggerating the danger."

"And you know _so_ much more than I do? I'm just some stupid, foolish little girl you --"

"Stop it," he told her before he lost his temper. "Or you will look foolish. You're brilliant, poppet -- but you're not sneaky. I just . . . wish you'd told me everything last night. I know I got distracted focusing on Cho, but . . . I really wish you'd told me the rest. I could have helped you better. You don't have to go it alone. I'd like to stand with you."

"Like you did with S.P.E.W.?"

"I didn't agree with you about that."

"And what if you hadn't agreed with me about this? What if --"

"Would you rather" -- he leaned in so his face was only a few inches from hers -- "have a boyfriend who fawns on you like a dog, or somebody who'll challenge you if he thinks you're wrong because he cares about you? You know if I say I'm with you, I'm _with you_. It's not lip service. And I am with you on this -- but you're going to have to be shrewder and not let things get out of your control . . . like the size of this meeting." She dropped her head and he reached up to stroke the back of her neck again, as if gentling a nervy, prize race horse. "You really are brilliant, and I know what that parchment we signed was. Clever maneuver, Granger. But like I said, you're not naturally sneaky."

"And you are, oh, so much _more_ sneaky, my dear Hufflepuff?"

He snorted and finished his ale in a long swallow. "You might say I come by it naturally." He looked at her. "I need to talk to you about Thursday night, but not in here."

They left the pub, and she asked, "Where do you want to go?" as they re-entered High Street.

"I have no bloody idea," he replied, some of his morning frustration returning. "I don't seem able to get _anywhere_ easily now, do I? I'm not a lot of fun."

Hands on hips, she stopped there in the middle of the street and he wheeled his chair about to face her. "Is _that_ what was bothering you all morning?" she demanded.

She made it seem as if he were being ridiculous, and he felt his blood boil. "It matters to me." As it was noon, most everybody had gone in somewhere for lunch, and he was glad the street was empty. "Do you think I _like_ being tied to the damn chair? But this is how it is for me. This is how it'll be for the rest of my life, and I wonder sometimes if you're off your head wanting anything to do with me."

That sounded so pathetic, even he recognized it. The meeting had temporarily sidelined his earlier dark mood but now it returned with a vengeance and he felt supremely sorry for himself, embarrassed to feel so, and resentful that she'd dismiss it as somehow absurd.

She blew out forcefully. "Cedric, I came with you today because I want to be with _you_. I don't care where we go, or if we go anywhere. We could sit in the sweet-shop garden for all it matters to me, although I admit, I am rather hungry and would prefer to go where we can get something to eat."

He blinked. Her response was impatient and bracing and matter-of-fact, but she wasn't laughing at him. She just refused to take his self-pity seriously. Perhaps it was what he'd needed; he found it easier to believe her. "I wanted you to have a good time today, but --"

"Then stop brooding if you want me to have a good time! If you're upset because_ you_ want to go in those shops and can't, that's one thing, but if you're upset because you think I particularly like shopping, I can promise you I don't. I just want to be with you, all right?"

He blinked at her. "Really?"

And she laughed. "You idiot -- of _course_." Coming over, she stroked his shoulder almost absently as if needing to touch him. "Don't ever, _ever_ apologize to me again because you're in the chair or on the crutches and it makes things difficult. Just tell me if there's something I can do to make it easier. I was afraid to ask earlier -- I didn't want to insult you. But, well, you told me that I didn't have to go it alone. You don't either. If you need me to move something out of your way, just say so. If you don't want to go somewhere because it's a royal pain, we don't have to go. I just don't necessarily _know_, and I don't want to assume -- so you have to tell me, all right?"

"I don't always know either," he admitted, catching her hand in his and looking up at her. "I had no idea today would be so awkward. I've been here so often, I didn't think about how it would be different." Unable to articulate his gratitude, he rubbed his thumb across the back of her hand and hoped she could guess. She smiled even as a small group of third or fourth years emerged from Zonko's, hurrying past in the street -- all turning to gape at the two of them holding hands and staring at each other with such intensity there in the middle of the road. "Cat's out of the bag now," he told her.

"I think it got out earlier."

"I'm not sure most people were sure we were here _together_, not just together, if you follow?"

She grinned. "Can we find lunch now? Then you can tell me whatever it was you wanted to tell me." And they headed off down High Street towards the Three Broomsticks, she with her hand resting on the back of his chair as he wheeled along. If it wasn't holding hands like other couples, it would do.


	16. Umbridge Strikes Back

Finding a place to eat -- and talk -- proved to be a challenge. The Three Broomsticks was far too crowded at noon, and Cedric's semi-serious suggestion of Madam Puddifoot's resulted in a burst of giggles from Hermione -- and an expression of great relief from Cedric. "Cho liked the place," he confided, "but I'm none too fond of bows and lace." Then abruptly he made a face. "That sounded catty, didn't it?"

She shrugged. "It sounded honest. And as if you sometimes did something you didn't like for someone you did like." But she was secretly gleeful they agreed in their horror of frilly bad taste. Romantic Cedric was one thing -- she wore both his locket and the blue cloisonne hair clip today -- but there were limits on her tolerance for frippery.

Not to mention that she doubted he'd have an easy time getting into the tea shop. She may have struggled to sound matter-of-fact during their discussion in the street -- not make him feel even worse -- but his distress had troubled her. She worried sometimes that he worked too hard at keeping a stiff upper lip about it all. Cedric rarely complained, and she didn't know how to draw him out -- although she was fairly certain turning into a human hosepipe about 'his condition' wouldn't be welcome. He'd said as much, if not talking about her, thank goodness. She'd taken it to heart. Nonetheless, she wasn't always sure where the line lay between simple awareness and pity. And when she saw him struggle -- or in pain as the other night -- it broke her heart.

"What about Lumsden's Stewpot?" he asked.

"Oh, ick. Cedric, I'm not that fond of casseroles." More than once she'd privately bemoaned the fact the Wizarding World didn't seem to have discovered the glory of pizza. Hogsmeade could use a pizza place, or even a nice café. Instead they offered stew and haggis and steamed pudding.

"Which is why it won't be packed," he said, "but won't be as empty as the Hog's Head either."

Like the Hog's Head, Lumsden's Stewpot lay off High Street in a two-story building of time-darkened brick with steam rising out of a back kitchen chimney. It wasn't busy, but still busy enough that unlike the Hog's Head, Cedric had to return to the crutches to navigate between tables towards one near the rear. "It's all right," he said. "My leg's not bothering me as much now. It comes and goes." They sat on the same side of the table, partly to be cozy, but also to keep what they said more private. Once their casseroles were delivered -- squab pie for him and a vegetarian casserole for her ('I'm a bit dubious as to exactly what meat's in that') -- he pulled his wand and cast a Silencing spell.

"Teach me that?" she asked, watching with interest.

"Of course. Remind me later." And digging into his pie -- apparently unfazed by the mystery meat -- he related to her what his mother had told him about Umbridge.

"I can't say I'm surprised she doesn't like magical creatures or Muggleborns," Hermione said when he was done. "At first, it was clear she didn't know what to make of me. Now, I think I scare her a bit -- but she doesn't want to let me."

Cedric laughed at that. "You scare us all a bit, Granger." She frowned, and he went on, "You do. You have no idea how intimidating you are." He turned his head a little to smile at her. "You know more spells than I do, and you're two years behind me. Be glad I don't have an ego."

Blushing, she looked away. "First, I don't know more spells than you. Second, I'm not trying to embarrass anyone, least of all you."

"I know." He reached over to squeeze her hand briefly. "I'm teasing you. But you're still pretty amazing." She felt her blush deepen until she was sure her whole face was tomato red. "As for Umbridge, we'll keep what my mother said in mind."

She stirred her casserole so it could cool enough to eat. "I hate to make it sound as if your Common Room is just a decoy, but it _is_ a public gesture, and maybe it could cover for Harry's class?"

"Not a bad thought," he replied. "If anyone does ask about that meeting this morning, let's say it had to do with getting more participation in the Common Room. Most of the people you had there are _also_ people who still come to the room, give or take a few. That was the other thing I wanted to talk to you about. My mother had an idea to get Slytherin to participate."

"Nothing else useful about Umbridge?" she asked.

Still working on his pie, he frowned. "No, nothing worth pursuing."

"I've been thinking about your Common Room too," she said. "You need a lure to get people back. Harry told me that Dumbledore gave you the Triwizard Cup."

Cedric nodded. "He did."

"Did you bring it with you to Hogwarts?"

"No, it's back home in my room. It's not something I especially like to look at, Hermione."

There was an edge in his voice that she knew indicated a polite warning, but she barreled on anyway. "Bring it to Hogwarts. Put it in the Common Room over near the entry to the trophy room. People will come to see it. They're curious. And it won't hurt to remind them you did win it -- even if you say you tied with Harry. It wouldn't hurt them to remember Harry, either. You fought a _dragon_, Cedric --"

"I didn't fight her, just stole a fake egg from her."

"Nevertheless. You and Harry both faced these . . . frightening tasks -- things most of us wouldn't dare try. Umbridge and _The Daily Prophet_ can say what they like about you, but they can't take that from you. I know you don't like to flatter yourself, but bring the cup. Remind people. They need to be reminded. And it _will _be a lure. It might even be a lure for Slytherin -- the chance to see the real Triwizard Cup."

He didn't answer immediately, and she could see he was thinking it over. "It might work," he said finally. She didn't press; it was probably the best she'd get out of him right now.

"What was your mother's idea?" she asked.

"She says I've thought about the room all wrong to make it appeal to Slytherin. They've been isolated for hundreds of years -- never really thought of themselves as part of Hogwarts the same as the other Houses. Why would they be interested in a school Common Room? The only way to get them to participate is if it benefits them."

"Sounds like Slytherin," she said, blowing on her casserole to cool it further. "Completely self-centered. I know your mother was in that House, and I'm sorry, but -- "

"Many of them are like that," he agreed, "but not all. I think . . . I think it's easy to get an incomplete -- or even wrong -- idea about a House. Most people not in Hufflepuff don't understand us, either." He smiled at her. "Including you."

Slightly offended, she tucked in her chin. "I don't, don't I?"

He shook his head and took a bite, chewing thoughtfully before he said, "You have no idea how often I hear things like, 'But you're too clever to be in Hufflepuff,' or 'You've got too much ambition to be in Hufflepuff,' or even" -- he grinned -- "'You're too _lazy_ to be in Hufflepuff.' But none of those have anything to do with my being Sorted into Hufflepuff."

"So what does?" She was curious. They'd never really talked about their different Houses except in passing, or in humor. And whatever she'd just protested, it was true that she _didn't _understand Hufflepuff. It was the last House she'd ever have expected to fall for anyone in, and she sometimes felt a strange need to apologize about it, "I know he's in Hufflepuff, but . . . " She didn't think Cedric would appreciate having his House apologized for.

"We're stubborn," he said now. "We don't give up. We stick together, and we _like_ to stick together. You'd never have to explain to my House why unity matters. We can't really understand why anyone would think it _doesn't_. People make fun of us because we don't come in first -- but that's because we don't leave anyone behind. As long as one of us has food, everyone has food. If one of us can stand, he'll pick everybody else up. That's my House, Hermione. We're _strong_. We can carry this whole school -- and we will, if we have to."

She blinked. 'Strong' wasn't an adjective she'd have applied to the 'Puffs, yet even as she opened her mouth to protest, she realized he was absolutely correct. Knock them down and they stood back up again. Gryffindor was brave, but Hufflepuff was tenacious. A bit Roman, that. And like a Rosetta stone, his description gave her the key to every Hufflepuff she knew -- even Zacharias Smith. It also explained why he refused to give in to his crippling, or to Umbridge, or to anything, really.

"There's a difference," she said slowly, just understanding it, "between 'winning' and 'not being beaten.'"

"_Yes_," he said, obviously pleased she'd understood him. "We don't always -- or even often -- care if we win. But we won't be beaten down.

"That's why it's both easier and harder for me to think like a Slytherin," he went on while she ate, still pondering what he'd said. "They've been on their own for centuries -- but they're not that different from us. They hunker down, too, and dig in, and you can't move them. They'll do whatever it takes for the group to survive. But they care more about winning. Notice when you play them in Quidditch. They cheat like nobody's business, but they cheat together. They cheat so the team wins, not just so one person looks good. If I may make a comparison -- Harry has that Firebolt, right? But the rest of his team's flying on whatever they can manage. When Draco went on the team, his father bought them all brooms."

"That was bribery!" Hermione exclaimed.

"Well, yes -- but a Seeker with a Nimbus 2001 would be bribery enough for some Houses. The goal was to supply the _team_ with brooms that exceeded everybody else's. Lucius can afford it -- but it wasn't just for Draco, and the brooms won't leave with the team members. They belong to the House. Do you see what I'm getting at?"

She narrowed her eyes and thought about it. She didn't like it, but she was thinking about it. "You're saying they only cheat other Houses, not each other? But they do cheat each other!"

"Not really."

"But Draco orders around Crabbe and Goyle like . . . like his servants!"

"That's different. He'd probably sacrifice them, too, if it was his life or theirs. But he'd do it because he considers himself the one who needs to survive -- and they'd let him. What he _wouldn't_ do is set them up to fall just to see them fall. He'd ask them to sacrifice themselves for him, but he also protects them. That's where Slytherin and Hufflepuff part ways. We don't have much hierarchy, even if sometimes it happens. I have a certain status there -- I'm honest enough to recognize it -- but part of why I have it is because I don't _take_ it. It's a gift, not a birthright. Slytherin is different, more . . . medieval, I guess. You go into that House with rights of birth -- or not. You're an aristocrat or commoner, but there's an expectation that if you're an aristrocrat, you provide -- _noblesse oblige._"

"I didn't think we had princes?"

"Not princes, poppet, but aristocrats, certainly. Every society has aristocrats whether or not those families have titles. What do you think the Blacks are? Or the Crouches or the Malfoys -- or the Potters? Varying degrees of aristocrat."

"The Diggories?"

He grinned. "I'm as middle class as you are -- no titles for me."

"_Upper _middle class," she corrected.

He shrugged. "But Slytherin wants a leader, and not Plato's 'philosopher king,' either. It goes to the strongest -- Machiavellian. Have you ever read _The Prince_?" She shook her head. "My mother made me read it. It's about what works -- functionalism, not ideals. The key to understanding Slytherin is to remember that for them, functionalism _is_ morality. If you can't make it work, what bloody use is it? Not a lot of room for impractical dreamers. If an ideal world isn't possible, then it's _immoral_ to chase after an impossibility and ignore what's in front of you. You see?"

She blinked, and for the first time began to understand how his mother, Professor Snape, Draco and even Tom Riddle could have all been sorted into the same House -- and why Harry had elements of that House in him. She nodded slowly.

"So yes," Cedric said, "Slytherin cheats at Quidditch, but that's because Slytherin doesn't really know how to play games. I could say the same of Gryffindor." He smiled and she actually paused in eating, taken by surprise. "Neither your House nor theirs knows how to lose and not let it bother you. It's why we can always count on the Slytherin-Gryffindor match to get nasty. Slytherin can't lose because they have a hard time with the concept of 'game' in the first place -- if it really means _nothing_, it's a waste of time and energy. So they make it mean something. Gryffindor gets their pride involved and losing becomes a personal blow." She wanted to object -- but couldn't. She didn't care about winning the Quidditch Cup, but only because she didn't care much about Quidditch. Harry and Ron, Angelina and the twins were all a different matter.

"For Hufflepuff" -- he shrugged -- "we honestly don't care if we win or lose as long as it was fun. We'll _try _to win, but if winning means cheating or elevating one player over all the others -- it's not worth it."

"You see all this from a completely different angle, you know that?" she told him.

"Probably. And I've been thinking a lot about it lately."

"So what does all that have to do with Slytherin and the Common Room?"

"Well, a common room is to mingle with the masses, right?" He raised both eyebrows and she nodded. "So why go if you're an aristocrat when the 'masses' there don't mean anything to you? And the leader sets the tone for Slytherin. If he doesn't go, nobody does."

"You're saying the room has to offer something?"

"Exactly. And to figure out what, you have to figure out who the leader is."

"Well, Draco, I suppose."

"He's one."

"Only one? Who else then?"

"Blaise Zabini. He's the only real challenger to Draco in that House. His family's as old and well-born, but not historically British."

"Where's he from?" Hermione knew vaguely who Zabini was, but no more. Cedric, she'd discovered, knew quite a lot about various Wizarding families, more even than Ron . . . probably because he paid better attention.

"His mother's from Tanzania; she was a younger sister to the queen mother -- or whatever the proper term is, I'm not quite sure. His branch of the Bantu are matrilineal, so his _mother _matters, not his father. I think his father was half Italian or something unexpected."

"Draco and Blaise are the only aristocrats?"

"Not the only ones, no. But the two most important in Slytherin just now. And Zabini's royalty."

"But the Wizarding World doesn't have --"

"That's just Europe, Granger. Don't equate it with everywhere. There are a lot of different traditions and some of them _do_ have royalty. As far as he's concerned, he's a prince and the rest of us are lesser mortals -- with a few exceptions. He has to acknowledge Draco, and he doesn't like it. More to the point, a lot of Slytherins don't like it. Zabini is probably the most talented wizard in that House, but who sets House policy? Draco Malfoy, because he's a Malfoy. A goodly portion of Slytherin would rather listen to Blaise. He's got more dignity, although sometimes he just comes off as haughty."

"All this because Draco is a Malfoy?"

"Yes. But if someone were to stand up for Zabini . . . "

"You could split the House."

"I'm not interested in splitting the House. I'm interested in helping someone stage a coup who owes me a favor -- and is no friend to Voldemort or Death Eaters. The obvious choice is Zabini."

She studied his face. "How are _you _going to do this, though? You're not in Slytherin even if your mother was."

Smiling faintly, he looked down. "That's the other thing I needed to tell you. I'd probably have told you soon anyway. It's not something . . . it's not something I've been hiding; it's not a secret, just . . . a closet skeleton, I suppose. I'm not proud of it."

He seemed a bit nervous and she felt a sudden tendril of alarm. "What are you going on about?"

"Well, Zabini might ally himself with me because of who my mother is. Remember that for him, my mother matters more than my father. And my mother makes me the one person able to challenge Draco for status."

She'd known his mother was related to Sirius and a pureblood, but she honestly hadn't thought too much beyond that. Her grasp of important Wizarding families was tenuous even after five years. "Who's your mother?" she asked softly.

"Lucretia Malfoy." He took a deep breath and looked up at her. "She was born Lucretia Malfoy."

Hermione's mouth fell open. "Oh, my God. She -- You -- Lucius Malfoy is your _uncle_? You're Draco's _cousin_? But Lucius cursed you! He made you like this!"

He held up a hand. "First, he's not my uncle. He and my mother are cousins, no more. Hers is the senior branch, actually, and the house Draco grew up in is the same one my mother grew up in. It belonged to her father, and his father before him back to the 1700s. It only passed to Lucius when my mother's father died." Hermione noticed Cedric didn't call him 'grandfather.' "Second, Lucius cursed me _because_ I'm my mother's son. There's not exactly a lot of love lost there."

Hermione stared at her unfinished lunch and felt the heavy food congeal in her stomach. She knew it shouldn't matter. Sirius was a Black, and by all accounts, that family was no better than the Malfoys. Yet no Blacks had harassed her for five years, called her 'mudblood' or other nasty insults. The name 'Malfoy' occupied a special dark place in her heart. She'd learned to find it hateful.

_And what must he feel? _she asked herself. He'd said he wasn't proud of it, and certainly she'd never heard his mother trade on her ancestry, or even her full name. She was Lucy Diggory now. Like Sirius, she must find her family unbearable. And like Tonks, Cedric had to bear the cross of his mother's ancestry.

"Having second thoughts about me, Granger?" he asked. It was said lightly, but she could feel the tension in him where he sat beside her.

"Of course not," she told him. "I'm just surprised. Why didn't you tell me earlier?"

"If your mother was related to some Muggle murderer or rapist, would you be quick to tell people?"

She slipped her arm through his and hugged it, laid her head on his shoulder. "No, I guess not."

He freed the arm to stretch it across the back of her chair and she snuggled down against his side as best she could with the two of them in separate seats. Their lunch was finished, or as much of it as she could eat. "You can have the rest of my casserole, if you want," she told him.

She watched him consider, then shake his head. "It's cold now." There was a pause. "So you're all right with it?" She knew he wasn't talking about refusing her food.

"It doesn't change anything. You don't judge me for being a mudblood."

He physically flinched. "Don't use that word."

She turned in her chair to face him. "You are Cedric _Diggory_, and even if you were Cedric Malfoy, it wouldn't matter." She raised a hand to stroke his cheek and he kissed her fingers. "Does Draco know? He supported you last year, but this year . . . "

"He knows now. And he supported me last year because I wasn't Harry. I'm under no illusions he'd have been all that supportive otherwise."

She snorted. "It must just kill him that you're in Hufflepuff and can still do magic in circles around him."

"I expect so. That's why Lucius hated my mother, too. She was stronger than him -- although Lucius is powerful or he wouldn't have risen so high with Voldemort. Yet to become a Master Painter, you have to be stellar in three subjects**: **Potions, Charms and Transfiguration. Top marks in every one."

She settled back into the arc of his arm. "So what are you going to do -- with Blaise, I mean?"

"Talk to him. My support may not be enough to lure him. He has to think he could realistically replace Draco as the power in Slytherin -- otherwise, he's setting himself up to be shunned. I don't know that I have enough influence to make it worth his while. All I can do is try. But I can't lose this, poppet. Everything rides on it working."

"You won't lose. Hufflepuff may not win often, but you don't lose."

That made him chuckle. "So you listen to me sometimes, at least."

* * *

The rest of that Saturday and all of Sunday, Cedric spent glued to Hermione. Now that they'd stopped pretending, he threw moderation to the wind and followed her about like a love-sick puppy. They spent Sunday either by the lake or in the Common Room and if he couldn't hold hands with her when they walked, he found plenty of other excuses to touch her and even took a nap with his head in her lap at one point. By the end of Sunday, they'd grown so easy with each other physically that she'd taken to pacing beside him down a hall with her thumb tucked in his back belt loop or her fingers tangled in his robes -- no hesitation or shyness. He was hers to claim, and in some bizarre time warp, they went from 'newly dating' to 'firmly established couple' in under 48 hours. It might have left them both with emotional whiplash except, of course, they'd been building up to it for weeks.

On Sunday, after report, they spent fifteen minutes in his office, door not open but not entirely shut, body-sunk in the physical. It was all about lips and tongues and the soft skin of her white throat beneath his mouth, and it required a superhuman effort to keep his hands from wandering. His cock felt as hard as wood by the time she left. They'd kissed and caressed heavily before, but he'd always had a chance after to get his wits and blood both back in their proper places like a winded runner walking himself cool. Sunday, she hurried out with apologies when she realized it was almost eleven, and sexually stranded, he motioned the door shut, unzipped, and wanked, which didn't take long in his tense state. Afterwards, he Banished the evidence and sat in his chair behind the desk, worrying over how soon the differences in their previous experience would become an issue. He wanted to do things with her _right now_ that she wasn't ready for. "Bloody hell," he whispered and rubbed his eyes.

Monday morning, he'd no sooner reached the main entrance than both Ernie and Hannah accosted him, whispering, "Cedric, you've got to see this," and pulling him towards the stairway down to the Hufflepuff basement. He followed and they steered him inside the common room up to a notice tacked to one of the old wine racks, very official-looking with a wax seal and dangling ribbon.

"She _knows_," Ernie said, face blanched white.

Cedric read over the sign quickly.

_-- By Order of --  
_ _THE HIGH INQUISITOR OF HOGWARTS_

_ All Student Organizations, Societies, Teams, Groups, and Clubs are henceforth disbanded._ _An Organization, Society, Team, Group, or Club is hereby defined as a regular meeting of three or more students._ _ Permission to re-form may be sought from the High Inquisitor (Professor Umbridge)._ _ No Student Organization, Society, Team, Group, or Club may exist without the knowledge and approval of the High Inquisitor._ _ Any student found to have formed, or to belong to, an Organization, Society, Team, Group, or Club that has not been approved by the High Inquisitor will be expelled._

_The above is in accordance with  
Educational Decree Number Twenty-Four_

Umbridge had signed it.

Cedric's initial reaction was a similar panic to Ernie's. Somebody in the Hog's Head -- or Hermione's group of poorly screened candidates -- had talked. Then common sense reasserted itself. "She knows something," he told Ernie, motioning for Ernie and Hannah to follow him over to a spot in the room that wasn't full of younger students gaping at the notice. Zach and Susan joined them, as did Ed and Peter. "But I don't think she knows what exactly. If she did, we'd all have been hauled in yesterday."

"Maybe Umbridge couldn't," Susan said. "Hermione told me that she checked everywhere for a rule against what we were doing, and there wasn't one."

Cedric shook his head. "I think all Umbridge knows is that a bunch of students met in the Hog's Head yesterday. I doubt she heard what we said."

"Why not?" Ernie asked. "We weren't especially quiet."

"No, you weren't," Cedric replied, glancing at Smith, who just raised his hands. "But I cast a Silencing Spell on the group. After a certain point, anyone listening wouldn't have known exactly what we were talking about. And --" He paused, frowning, "Where are Scott and Justin?"

"Justin went looking for you, mate," Ernie said.

"Same," Peter agreed. "We sent Scott for you right after we saw it."

"Well, tell them, too, Hermione and I have an idea. If anyone should ask about the meeting yesterday, say it was about the Common Room and how to get people back into it. And Hannah . . . would you tell Cho the same?"

Hannah gave him a knowing look even as Ernie asked, "You still plan to do this Defense Against the Dark Arts class?"

"I'm not about to back down now," Cedric replied and looked at all of them. "We're badgers. We hold on. Umbridge has no idea who she's dealing with."

He didn't see Hermione until lunch and drew her off into a corner. They stood with heads bent close, faces inches apart. "You heard?" she asked and he nodded; she went on, "Harry's owl was attacked."

"What?"

"She came back this morning wounded -- had a message from Snuffles, although I doubt anybody who might have read it would have understood it."

"What'd it say?"

"'Today, same time, same place.'" She crooked her finger and he bent even closer. She whispered against his mouth, "Gryffindor common room fireplace, very late."

"He's off his head," Cedric whispered back, then drew away slightly. "You'll tell me tomorrow?" She nodded and they turned away from each other to head for their respective tables. His eyes swept the Head Table, and saw Umbridge staring at him with a strange intensity. It made him shiver all over as he settled on the bench beside Peter and listened to Ed wax indignant that Educational Degree Number Twenty-Four covered Quidditch teams and he had to ask Umbridge's permission to reform. "Be glad I'm not still captain then," Cedric told them. "She'd give me permission when hell freezes over."

Yet he wasn't the least surprised to hear that Slytherin already had permission, and by supper, Ravenclaw did, too. Hufflepuff and Gryffindor were not given permission. Umbridge 'needed a bit of time to consider.' That only cemented Cedric's certainty that somebody in the Hog's Head had counted scarf and tie color yesterday. Of Hermione's thirty-two students, only six came from Ravenclaw. The resistance centered on Gryffindor and Hufflepuff and Umbridge knew it.

In their Transfiguration lesson, McGonagall -- somewhat uncharacteristically -- decided to fish. "I don't suppose you could shed any light for me on this most recent decree?" she asked him. "I understand there was a meeting in the Hog's Head on Saturday. Something about an independent study group . . . "

And Cedric was stuck. He knew very well a member of the Order had been there, watching and perhaps listening for as much as could be heard -- and McGonagall was in the Order. Little point in lying. But, "The less you know, perhaps the better, professor."

She glared at him, although it wasn't entirely unkind. "Watch your step, Mr. Diggory. This could be very, very dangerous."

"They're going ahead with it anyway. I reckon they need looking after, you know?" He leaned forward. "But I do have a question. Could you teach me to cast a Fidelius Charm?"

Her expression was startled. "Cedric, that is . . . extremely complicated magic."

"I know. I looked into it on Sunday. That's why I need help. There are portions of that spell I don't think I can do yet."

"Not surprising," she told him, and sighed. "I fear it's beyond you -- and you know how highly I think of your talent. But you _are_ still a student, Diggory. That's a charm most adult wizards can't cast. Aim lower." She scribbled something onto a bit of parchment and handed it to him. "You might find that useful." He studied the book title she'd written there: _Concealment Spells and Obscurification Objects_. It was, he noticed, in the Restricted Section.

"I'll need a note --" He looked up to see her holding out another piece of parchment. He took it and blinked when he saw the contents. "This is . . . unlimited access."

"I'll be assigning you several books from that section for our class, so unlimited access is convenient. I don't want to waste my time writing you a note for every book. And you may find it a useful section of the library, Diggory -- but be careful what you pick up in there. I trust you to demonstrate some discretion. Yet as you say, some need looking after. Now, let's get to work."

Grinning, he pocketed the note. He'd show it to Harry later. He needed to talk to the boy anyway.

However alarming Umbridge's new decree, there was one silver lining. Students had more important things to discuss than Cedric's now public relationship with Hermione Granger. Nevertheless, and after the weekend, there was gossip and he fielded more than a few questions: "Yes, I'm seeing Hermione," "No, I didn't break up with Cho because of Hermione," and "I met Hermione through Harry," were usually sufficient as answers.

But before History of Magic, Adrian Pucey of Slytherin pointed out that Hermione had been through every Triwizard Champion but one. "She must have some pretty extraordinary talents of her own," he said with a suggestive leer. "Care to pass her on to me when you're tired of her, Diggory-Dog?"

Ed was forced to hold down Cedric's wand hand to prevent him from casting something very nasty. "Bastard," Cedric hissed under his breath, getting out his quill as Binns arrived through the blackboard. After class, he cornered his three friends. "Who else is saying stuff like that about Hermione?"

Scott shook his head, Ed shrugged, but Peter looked down at his feet. "Well, there was that article in _The Prophet_ last year . . . "

"That was utterly ridiculous. I didn't even know her then and I didn't believe it."

"I don't think most people did," Scott assured him. "At least, not around here. Granger's reputation as a swot's a bit too well-earned."

But Peter was shaking his head now. "That's the problem, though. It left people asking how she got Krum's attention. She'd been friends with Potter, but Viktor Krum -- ? Come on, there were people who assumed she was putting out. Now she's got Cedric and they're asking the same thing."

"No way," Scott said. "Ced here's the Good Boy. With me, that'd be a safe bet, but not with him."

"I didn't say it was a lot of people," Peter defended. "But Ced asked who, and there are some -- and it's not just Slytherin." Peter looked back at him. "Not a lot you can do about it, mate, so don't beat yourself up; they'll figure it out. You are the one with the straight-up reputation." Abruptly, he grinned. "Even if _we_ know what you were doing with Zoë Smythe in the Hufflepuff locker room two years ago. Or with Cho in the owlery, for that matter. You're not so lily-white."

"Sod off," Cedric told him, but without much heat.

After dinner, he went looking for Blaise Zabini when he heard Zabini had gone to the library to work on a Charms essay. Finding him in a section sometimes called 'Slytherin Corner,' he sat down across from him at the table. Zabini ignored him although the deliberate care of his writing told Cedric he was far from unaware of being watched.

Like his mother, Blaise was startlingly attractive with high cheekbones and slanted eyes. If his hair had a sleeker look than usual in an African, his skin was still a smooth black ink because his mother's was so very, very dark. It would take more than a little Italian coffee to lighten it. For sheer perfect arrangement of feature, he was handsomer than Cedric, but as those features were foreign, the girls trailed him less. The fact he was haughtier than anyone else at Hogwarts and generally regarded as unattainable also contributed.

Cedric, however, was a more patient hunter and sat waiting. Finally Zabini gave up his pretense at indifference and put down his quill. "What do you want, Diggory?"

"Didn't really want anything. Just musing to myself."

Zabini frowned. "I somehow doubt that, but I'll humor you and ask what you were musing about?"

"Wondering how long you're going to let Draco Malfoy dictate Slytherin policy?"

"Who says I let him do it now?"

Cedric turned his head slightly to eye Zabini sidewise. "Come on, who was chosen prefect? I know who's in charge in Slytherin. We all do. A white ferret not the black panther."

And that ruffled Zabini's fur just as Cedric had hoped. "That spoiled brat doesn't rule me. Only fools and posers follow him."

Cedric shrugged, careful to make it seem both unconcerned and dubious at once. "If you say so."

Leaning forward, Zabini studied Cedric in turn with the same intensity Cedric had studied him earlier. Cedric let him, even met his eyes and smiled a little. "You want something," Zabini said. "What, I can't imagine. I didn't think Hufflepuff liked Slytherin."

"I didn't think Slytherin liked anybody."

"Slytherin doesn't need anybody."

Abruptly, Cedric grinned. "Too bad, that." Grabbing his crutches he got to his feet, shuffling off and leaving Zabini (hopefully) to ponder what he'd meant. He'd sowed the seeds. For now, that would do.

Somewhat unexpectedly, he ran into Harry -- alone -- in one of the hallways. "Ced!" Then Harry paused as if unsure what else to say, and Cedric realized that things had suddenly got very complicated between them again.

"How's your owl?" he asked.

Harry blinked, as if surprised that Cedric knew. "I gave her to Professor Grubbly-Plank to see to."

Cedric nodded. "I need to talk to you. Come to my office?"

"All right."

Harry paced him down to the concealed lift and remarked, as they descended, "Wow. Handy."

"A bit."

When they reached Cedric's office, Cedric propped himself on his desk and Harry paced around, asking, "What did you want?"

"Look at this." Cedric held out the parchment McGonagall had given him.

Taking it, Harry glanced at it. "Wow. That means . . . "

"I can research spells. She knows, Harry. About the classes. This is tantamount to her blessing. There was a member of the Order in the pub on Saturday."

Harry seemed startled and Cedric wondered why Hermione hadn't told him. "Who?"

"Have no idea -- somebody male. I know about the note from Snuffles, too."

"Hermione told you."

"Yeah."

And Harry suddenly wasn't looking at Cedric. Although Harry and Ron had spent some time with Cedric and Hermione on Sunday, it had been a bit . . . awkward. "Listen," Harry said suddenly, "this feels weird, but, well, I've got to say it. She hasn't got a brother, so I guess I'm it. Treat her right. It's not that I don't think you will, but --"

Cedric found himself grinning. "I'd think less of you if you didn't say it," he told the younger boy. "And I'll treat her well, don't worry." He paused, suddenly blurting out, "I think I love her."

Harry didn't reply, just blinked at him owlishly for a moment from behind the glasses. "Really? How . . . I mean, how do you know? When you love somebody?" He rubbed his scar. "I'm not challenging you, I'd just . . . really like to know, uh, how you know?"

"Have no idea. Never been in love before."

"Not with Cho -- ?" Harry was blushing furiously.

"No. Liked her? A lot. Loved her? No."

"But Hermione?"

"Yeah. Maybe."

"Wow."

"Yeah, scares me a bit too. Don't tell her, all right?" He felt himself blushing as well, and wasn't sure why he felt able to tell Harry what he'd barely even admitted to himself, but Harry was different. They were silent then, caught up in their awkwardness. "You're still going to do the class?" he asked finally.

"I think so, yeah," Harry replied.

"Good."

More silence. Harry stood. "I should go, I suppose."

"Harry." Harry stopped and looked back. "I need you to know something because it may come out in the next few weeks. I don't want you to be startled. I told Hermione. It's not a secret exactly, but, well -- you need to know. As you're close to . . . Snuffles . . . I expect you'll understand." Harry continued to stare. Cedric swallowed. Hermione had accepted the news well enough, but Harry wasn't Hermione. "My mother is a cousin to Lucius Malfoy."

Harry's mouth fell open; he looked a bit foolish. "You're a _Malfoy_?"

"Technically. On my mother's side."

Harry ran a hand into his hair. "Uh, yeah." He looked up at Cedric again. "Is that why Lucius . . . to you -- ?"

"Yes." It was odd how he and Harry seemed to have these conversations half-composed of half-finished sentences. Yet they never seemed to be confused about what the other meant.

"Snuffles knows, I assume?"

"Oh, yeah. Like I said, it's not really a secret. It's just that nobody on either side really wants to talk about it now. My mother embarrasses the family, and the family embarrasses me."

"Not her?"

"Not as much. She's . . . not quite like Snuffles. Not everybody in Slytherin is bad, Harry."

He frowned. "I want to believe that."

"Then try harder. You're a Parselmouth. Does it make you evil?"

Harry glared. "I'm not in Slytherin."

"So? Did the Hat suggest putting you there?"

Harry hesitated, then nodded.

"Me, too," Cedric admitted. "It suggested Slytherin first, in fact. It was a test. I'm where I belong."

"So am I."

Cedric nodded in wordless agreement. Harry _was_ where he belonged.

Another stretch of silence. "That's all you wanted to tell me?" Harry asked.

"Mostly, yeah. I didn't want you to be surprised -- if it comes out."

"Thanks."

Harry turned for the office door and Cedric hesitated, then called after him, "Harry -- ask out Cho before somebody else does."

Startled, Harry glanced back. "What? I mean -- why?"

Cedric smiled. "She likes you. Trust me on that."

And Harry's face flushed deeply. "I . . . uh . . . " But he fled out the door without completing that thought, leaving Cedric to scratch the back of his head and wonder if they'd cleared the air or not.

The next morning, it was pouring down rain, so in the break between classes, Cedric sought out Hermione sitting with Ron and Harry in one of the first-floor classrooms. "Well?" he asked, lowering himself into a desk beside her. She reached over to lace her fingers into his, but otherwise appeared somewhat distracted. So did Ron, who stared at their clasped hands.

But after the discussion the night before, Harry took it in his stride and bent closer as Cedric pulled his wand and cast Muffliato. "You have to teach me that," Harry said, echoing Hermione from Saturday.

"I will, but not here."

Harry nodded and related what Sirius had said, including a message from Cedric's mother. If Molly Weasley had forbidden Ron to take part in the class -- an order that Ron appeared quite ready to ignore -- Cedric's own mother was mostly annoyed with him for taking so long to cast the Silencing spell.

"Mundungus, was it?" Cedric asked when Harry had finished. "And he says the spell worked for the whole group?"

"After a certain point he couldn't hear anything but bees buzzing. But he heard enough before that."

Cedric thought his mother probably right to chastize him for being so slow, and he glanced over at Hermione, who'd been strangely silent. Now, she was staring out a window. "What's up, poppet?"

She looked around at him. "What? Oh -- nothing, really. I was just thinking . . . I suppose we're doing the right thing . . . I think . . . aren't we?"

"Well, that clears that up," said Ron. "It would've been really annoying if you hadn't explained yourself properly."

Cedric glared at Weasley but Hermione seemed to come back to herself and went on in a stronger voice, "I was just wondering whether we're doing the right thing, starting this Defense Against the Dark Arts group."

"What?" both younger boys said together, and Ron added, "Hermione, it was your idea in the first place!"

Cedric was silent. He thought he might understand. They were breaking the rules quite severely and he'd never done anything like this before either. Of course, he'd never been faced by the likes of Umbridge . . . and Voldemort.

"I know," Hermione was saying, "but after talking to Snuffles . . . "

"But he's all for it!" Harry pointed out.

"Yes. Yes, that's what made me think maybe it wasn't a good idea after all . . . "

Peeves the Poltergeist floated above them with a peashooter for ink pellets. They all ducked and raised book bags. "Damn ghost," Cedric muttered. "I wish Dumbledore would get rid of him."

Harry and Ron ignored that to focus on Hermione. "Let's get this straight," Harry was saying. "Sirius agrees with us, so you don't think we should do it anymore?"

Cedric could feel Hermione's hand tighten on his. "Do you honestly trust his judgment?"

"Yes, I do!" Harry snapped back. "He's always given us great advice!"

Before Hermione or anybody else could reply, Peeves had hit Katie Bell with an ink pellet and in a rage -- everybody seemed to be tense these days -- she leapt up to fling anything at Peeves she could lay hands on. Cedric took the momentary distraction to free his hand from Hermione's and slip an arm around the back of her seat, his fingers on the nape of her neck, stroking as he had in the Hog's Head on Saturday. "Relax," he whispered to her.

She shot him a little smile, but turned back to Harry, who was obviously chewing over her words. "You don't think he's become . . . sort of . . . reckless . . . since he's been cooped up in Grimmauld Place?" she asked. "You don't think he's . . . kind of . . . living through us?"

"What d'you mean, 'living through us'?" Harry demanded.

"I mean . . . well, I think he'd love to be forming secret defense societies right under the nose of somebody from the Ministry . . . I think he's frustrated at how little he can do where he is . . . so I think he's keen to kind of . . . egg us on."

Ron and Harry appeared torn and troubled, and slightly annoyed. Ron said, "Sirius is right -- you _do_ sound just like my mother."

"Hermione," Cedric said, turning to face her, his hand still rubbing the nape of her neck soothingly. "My mother actually agrees with Sirius on this." She looked over at him, half relieved, half dubious. Ron and Harry appeared triumphant. "_But,_" Cedric added, "we've got to be more careful from here on out -- a lot more careful."

All three of them stared at him with wide eyes, but nodded. The bell rang for their next classes.


	17. Cernunnos

Wednesday was, if possible, even wetter than Tuesday. Cedric found this to be a blessing in disguise. Getting to and from Herbology bordered on miserable for him, but the downpour brought a rise in the number of those who suddenly remembered there was a school Common Room. He began to wonder if he'd need any incentive besides the bad Scottish weather, which he could pretty much count on. Nonetheless, and after a bit of thought, he decided to try Hermione's suggestion and wrote to his mother, asking if she could send him the Triwizard Cup.

He also dragged out the little black journal Lupin had given him. He used it to talk to himself about two things -- life on the crutches, and what he felt for Granger. He'd decided at the outset he shouldn't write anything in it about the Order, in part because he _couldn't_. It was quite impossible for him to write a word that was more than allusive. The Fidelius Charm Dumbledore had cast prevented it, and to _experience_ the restriction, not just read about it in a textbook, felt strange. In any case, the journal was for _him_, for the things he had on his mind that he wasn't sure how or where else to express. So he filled it with his anger and his fears, his longing and his passion. He wasn't loquacious verbally and often kept his less appealing emotions to himself, but a quill in his hand freed his tongue, so to speak.

Wednesday, he found himself writing the question Harry had asked him on Monday**:**

_How do I know if I'm in love?_

Putting down the quill, he stared at the question and wondered if he _could_ know yet? Despite his romantic streak, he was skeptical of love at first sight, thinking such 'love' really just lust prettied up a bit. He knew lust perfectly well. Love, though, eluded him. Certainly he loved his parents, and he loved Esiban, but despite his popularity, he'd always felt isolated at Hogwarts and wondered if he could even say he loved his friends? He was fond of them, enjoyed their company, cared about them, certainly -- but did he love them?

When it came down to it, he thought he might be a bit of a cold fish for a Hufflepuff.

Yet what he felt for Hermione was creating a category all its own. Did that make it love, or just very intense infatuation? The feeling wasn't easing either, now that things were public. He'd thought that being free to see and speak to her at meals and between classes might reduce the time he spent daydreaming. Instead, his fancy had increased. Umbridge wanted people to think him addicted to Abdoleo, but his real addiction was Hermione.

He didn't think that counted as love, though -- just obsession.

It might have helped if he knew whether his parents were in love with each other, but he'd never been sure. He knew there was a story behind their marriage -- a scandal, really -- but they'd never told it to him when he'd asked as a boy, and after a while, he'd stopped asking. He'd sometimes envied his friends their parents who clearly adored one another -- including the Weasleys. Yet life in his house hadn't been unhappy or unpleasant. If he wasn't sure whether his parents loved each other, they certainly didn't hate each other. They got along, and supported one another. His mother wouldn't have been able to study in Florence as a young woman had his father not been willing to follow her there at the expense of starting his own career, not to mention she'd had no place to go when she'd turned her back on her family, except to Amos Diggory's side. He'd been her champion and her sanctuary.

But was that love on his part, or just adoration? And did his mother love his father, or was it only gratitude? It was confusing, and Cedric had grown up trying not to think about it too much. The only thing he knew for sure was that he never wanted to marry a woman merely from gratitude or guilt -- but found it ironic that he'd stayed with Cho so long for just those reasons. Children learned what they lived. Perhaps what his parents had worked for them, but it wasn't what he needed.

He needed to be in love with a girl. He just didn't know if he'd recognize it when he found it.

Picking up the quill again, he hesitated, then began to answer his own question -- not in narrative form, but in lines of feeling and impression. His mother used brush and color to speak. Cedric didn't have that talent, but he still saw the world in imagery and symbol, so he painted in words.

_Skin-thrill in touch. Heart-catch and breath held.  
Watch her lips as she drops words, eat them and her mouth both.  
There lies all of her for me to taste.  
She hides in my heart, peeks out and surprises me.  
I dream of futures in kaleidoscope senses.  
Soft conversations and the smell of rain,  
warm hearth-fire nights and summer sun  
caught in leaves and brown hair.  
Laughter and whispers and soft sighs from her hands on me.  
Want lies heavy between my legs. Love lies somewhere else.  
The intangible Real. My body knows only a wall-shadow of that truth,  
but in the shadow is the Form of Beauty._

He looked down at it. Maybe not very good verse -- he wasn't entirely sure how to judge -- but he thought he had his answer all the same, and wrote the poem's last line:

_I am in love with Helen's daughter._

Closing the journal, he put it away in his desk and left his rooms for supper. Hermione was waiting for him outside the Great Hall and hurried to meet him when she saw him coming down the corridor, her robes and wild hair flying. It made him smile. The face of Helen's daughter wouldn't launch a thousand ships, but that was just fine with him. When she hugged him, she fit against his side and she knew how to talk to him. He liked her stubborn chin and her bushy hair and the dusting of brown freckles on her nose. Most of all, he liked her eyes; they were beautiful and warm. And yes, maybe this was what love felt like, tucked away underneath everything else.

She pulled his head down to kiss him quickly, whispering, "We're meeting at eight," against his mouth. "Seventh floor opposite the tapestry of Barnabas the Barmy."

"'We' who?" he whispered back as she let him go. He had to admit he rather enjoyed this manner of passing on covert information.

"You know -- 'we' we."

Feeling light-hearted, he just laughed at her. "Clear as mud, Granger."

She made a moue of annoyance. "You know what I mean. Tell Ed, Scott and Peter, please."

Ah, her Dark Arts class. "As my lady commands." And he laughed again when she swatted at him.

The _place_ of their meeting turned out to interest Cedric more than the lesson -- a room he'd never seen after seven years in the castle, fitted out to order for their needs just by wishing it. Powerful magic indeed. "This room could be anything?" he asked Harry as he clomped around the perimeter, examining things while they awaited the arrival of everyone.

"That's what Dobby said -- the 'Room of Requirement.'"

"How do you create it?"

Harry told him. Cedric wasn't sure what he could do with the knowledge, but just learning such a room existed was well worth putting up with such wheel-spinning as a formal vote to elect Harry leader, and giving the group a name. He'd been forced to bite his tongue to keep from laughing aloud when Scott had semi-seriously suggested the name "It."

"It?" Hermione had asked him, dumbfounded.

"Well, that's what it'll get called, won't it? May as well just name it that and be done with it."

Hermione's grossly offended expression left Cedric and his mates in near hysterics, and even Harry was grinning. But Cedric thought it probably a good thing not to take it all quite so seriously, at least when it came to the trappings. What they were here to do was quite serious enough, and he supported Harry when the boy suggested practicing Expelliarmus first. He didn't really need it personally, but the best way to survive a fight was to avoid having one in the first place. "There's something to be said," he told them quietly, "for disarming your opponent and then running like hell."

"Yeah, I'd call it being a coward," one of the twins shot back. "Like you in the graveyard last June."

"Fred!" Hermione snapped, and even Ron and Ginny looked a bit taken aback. Several of the Hufflepuffs bristled visibly.

Stung (because he still felt badly for having left Harry), Cedric retorted, "I'd call it _common sense_ when the person you're facing is fifty years older than you and the most powerful dark wizard in recent history. I'd rather live to fight another day than die because I'm stupid."

"Who're you calling stupid, Diggory?" asked the other twin, George apparently.

Harry stepped between them. "Stop it. Cedric has a point -- why do you think I suggested practicing that spell? And remember, I told him to go back. We might not have made it out without Dumbledore. If I'd gone and left him, they'd just have killed him. They wanted me alive, at least for a while."

Fred and George backed down, but appeared a bit mulish about it. They still hadn't forgotten that Cedric had come back without Harry at first. Ron may have forgiven him once he'd understood the logic of it, but it was just one more in the laundry list of things the twins resented Cedric for. They might be on the same side and all in the Order, but that didn't mean they had to like each other.

Cedric paired himself with Scott first, then traded off with Ed and Peter. He had the fastest reactions, Scott the most powerful magic, but Ed the Chaser was the most precise at aiming. Poor Peter came out the worst with each of them, but valiantly kept trying. At least he managed to get Scott once because the latter was too busy flirting with Alicia Spinnet.

"That was a dirty trick!" Scott howled when he picked himself up from the floor where the spell had landed him.

Cedric, Ed and Peter just laughed. "The Death Eaters won't wait for you to stop making eyes at the girls," Ed told him, although Ed was, himself, spending rather a lot of time glancing over at Susan Bones paired with Hannah Abbot.

Cedric was doing his best _not_ to watch Hermione paired with Ron, and be jealous. It made sense for her to practice with someone from her own year. Cedric could probably disarm her before she could get her wand up and while no Death Eater would grant her quarter, it wouldn't do any good to break her confidence by being overmatched immediately. His Granger might be brilliant, but she was more deliberate than speedy. They'd work on that, but later, when no one else was watching.

The lesson overran the time allotted, but when Harry blew his whistle for the last time and called a halt, the faces in the room appeared mostly pleased. As Harry sent off students in twos and threes, Cedric said goodnight to his former denmates and crossed to join Hermione, who was bickering with Ron over how many times they'd each disarmed the other. She slipped an arm around Cedric's waist almost absently and without pause in her debate. He quite liked that, even if it were hard for him to return the gesture. Harry joined them too, and Cedric asked, "Are they always like this?" Ron and Hermione had got into some ridiculous debate on Sunday, too, that had lasted twenty minutes.

"Now you know why I get headaches," Harry replied. "Come on, we need to get back."

"And you two've got rounds to do," Cedric reminded Ron and Hermione, then noticed the parchment Harry had been carrying around. "What is that?"

Harry grinned and held it up, showing a map of Hogwarts -- a magical map. Cedric gaped and took it from him, staring at it while he balanced on one crutch. "This is amazing!" Maybe not quite on a par with the Room of Requirement itself, but still quite impressive. "Where did you _get_ this?"

"Long story. You won't confiscate it, will you?"

The question reminded Cedric that he held not just a fascinating magical object, but quite an illegal one for a student. "I should." Harry's lips parted in surprise. "But I won't. It's far too useful. Besides, I'd like to know how this was made. It's showing . . . is this everybody?"

"Yup."

"But we're not on here."

Harry took the map back and looked at it. "We're not, are we? Huh. That's interesting. The room blocks it?"

"Apparently." Cedric leaned over to look at it again. "Do you know who made it?"

"My dad," Harry said proudly. "When he was a student here. Well, my dad and Sirius and Lupin and . . . Pettigrew, too, though I don't know how much _he_ contributed." Harry flipped it closed so Cedric could see the title**: **_The Marauder's Map_. "That's what they called themselves, the Marauders."

"_Remus_ helped make this?" Cedric had to stifle a laugh. "And they did it as_ students_?" He, Remus and Sirius were going to have a little chat, maybe over Christmas break. He wanted the whole story, including the directions for creating one. Contraband or not, he was captivated.

Hermione seemed to find his curiosity amusing, and he suspected she hadn't turned it in for exactly the same reasons he wasn't going to -- it was far too impressive, not to mention useful. "I need this to get up here without being seen," he said. "I'm not exactly speedy these days."

Harry glanced at Hermione. "Well, next lesson, we'll all come together, all right?" Cedric nodded.

* * *

Hermione was amazed at how quickly she and Cedric developed their little habits and idiosyncracies over the next few weeks. They saw each other off and on during a day as regularly as clockwork in pre-agreed places**: **their particular corner of the courtyard, the base of the main staircase to the Gryffindor Tower, the prefects' lounge, beneath the Butterfly Woman in the library . . . Some might have found their predictability boring, but it comforted her. Their lives had quite enough excitement in other respects and she liked having something, and someone, she could count on. Yet as wrapped up in Cedric as she became, she struggled not to forget her other friends, and he seemed to be attempting the same. She wanted him _in_ her life, not compartmentalized from it. So she spent time with the Four Musketeers (as she was coming to think of them), and he spent time with her, Ron and Harry, or even her, Ginny and Michael Corner. Being with another couple was a bit easier, although Cedric and Michael didn't have a lot in common beyond Quidditch, and Cedric didn't want to talk about Quidditch these days -- a difficult thing as most of the castle was abuzz with the first match approaching**: **the infamous clash between Slytherin and Gryffindor. Hermione heard so much about it from Harry and Ron, she was glad to escape to Cedric who didn't want to discuss it endlessly.

A few days after they made their relationship public, she wrote her mother a long letter, telling her all about him. Her mother wrote back with a mix of maternal excitement and carefully couched questions. The questions made Hermione smile. Her parents had been a bit alarmed by her date to the Yule Ball with Viktor Krum -- three years her senior and famous. They hadn't realized 'Krum' wasn't Viktor, who had no interest in taking advantage of a star-struck girl even if Hermione had been one. Cedric seemed to worry them less, although he was still old enough that there were 'concerns.' "You'll love him," she promised in a return letter.

Despite their public inseparability, they stole private time here and there -- preferably sitting down as it freed his hands, although she wasn't sure having his hands free was always a good thing. It wasn't that he tried touching forbidden places -- Cedric was too much the gentleman -- but that he was very good at completely unraveling her just by touching the skin she showed in public. He taught her how sensitive her hands could be, the insides of her elbows, and the nape of her neck, and made her shiver just from running a forefinger along the rim of her ear.

Yet for all that, the physical never completely took over. She'd worried at first that it might, yet they still discussed class work, Wizarding politics, the D.A., Umbridge's possible plans, and the spells in the books he sometimes fetched from the Restricted Section and shared with her as they sat side-by-side at a quiet table with parchment strewn all around them. "Look at this one," or "What do you think would happen if we combined that with this?" Cedric, she learned, was more of a theorist than memorizer, and maybe that was why Harry's map had fascinated him so. He convinced her to bring it with her once for a lunch date beneath the Butterfly Woman, and spent more time playing with the map than snuggling with her. She didn't mind. His fierce curiosity was part of why she loved him.

And she did. She'd been thinking about it ever since his slip of the tongue in the library, and realized that what she felt had grown far beyond infatuation. When one met one's alter ego, wasn't love inevitable? That was how she looked at it anyway. It was completely logical that she'd fall head over heels for Cedric Diggory.

The only taboo topic in these library intellectual free-for-alls was the matter of house-elves. She'd stopped knitting hats because she assumed he knew what he was talking about when he'd said she couldn't free them because she wasn't their mistress. And a lack of time had kept her from going down to the kitchens as he'd suggested -- but she doubted anything the elves there told her would matter, as elves were magically bound to their masters and couldn't speak ill of them. A compelled expression of contentment meant nothing.

Yet Hermione fully intended to take Cedric's advice to talk to an elf.

_His_ elf.

Ron had said the Diggorys had one, which made Cedric the elf's master and he could order her to be honest. If, as Ron claimed, the elf doted on Cedric -- and Hermione had a hard time imagining Ced cruel to anybody or anything -- Hermione remembered how Amos Diggory had treated the house-elf Winky and doubted the Diggorys' elf would be as fond of the father as of the son.

She intended to hear the unvarnished truth -- and for Cedric to hear it too. Perhaps that would convince him.

Friday morning of their third week together, not long before Halloween, Hermione came downstairs for breakfast with Ron and Harry only to find a large crowd hanging about staring at the wall in the main entrance near the stairs down to the kitchens. What on earth?

The three of them approached and Hermione spotted Angelina at the back of the crowd. "What's going on?"

Angelina pointed at the wall. "A new painting arrived last night."

As the interior walls of the castle were covered in paintings, a new one didn't seem like it would merit such intense interest. "So?" Harry asked from beside Hermione.

"It's a real _painting_," Angelina said, as if that explained it, "not another portrait." She grinned and winked. "There's only one living painter of that calibre in England and I do believe Hermione here knows her model."

Alicia Spinnet leaned over to add, "Might know him well enough to say whether that tattoo is real or not."

"Tattoo?" Curious and keen to escape their teasing, Hermione squeezed through the crowd -- which parted to let her -- until she found herself before a framed canvas at least six feet tall if it were an inch.

It displayed the naked torso of a young man from his jawline down to the top U-curve of his hip bones, and the skill of the painter had rendered sublime what might otherwise have bordered on indecent. A twisted, gold torque encircled his neck and the fine muscles of chest and stomach were highlighted by the twining tattoo of a ram-horned snake. He stood in a forest clearing beside a misty pond, and if his face weren't shown, the sun had cast his shadow over the water behind him to reveal that his head wore a pair of seven-tined antlers.

"Cernunnos," she breathed out. The Green Man, Stag-Horned, master of the forest and the hunt, but also the Summer Sacrifice, dying and rising again. The painting cast him young and beautiful and virile, set against gold sunlight and rich, summer colors. In the bottom right corner was the artist's name**: ****_Lucretia_**.

Master Painter indeed. Hermione had no artist's eye, but even she could tell this picture's quality eclipsed virtually everything else in the castle.

Except it didn't move, or not appreciably. A faint wind rustled the leaves of the oak trees around him, and even as she watched, three cranes landed in the bullrushes framing the pond while a pair of badgers hid in the bole of an old tree. Yet the young god was still, caught in the green amber of sun-dappling. "What does it mean?" she asked no one in particular.

"That's what the painting will reveal," said an alto voice behind her and turning, she came face-to-face with the artist, dressed not in her customary purple but in robes of vivid, forest green, as if she sought to match her artwork. Or declare her House.

"How will the painting reveal it?" Hermione asked. "It doesn't move." People around were watching them both. "And how will it end?"

Mrs. Diggory turned from the painting to her. Her eyes were very pale blue and amused. "Do you read the end of the novel before its beginning?"

Hermione blinked. In fact, she didn't read novels at all. There was so much to learn, and fiction -- even Wizarding fiction -- seemed a bit of a waste of time. But she didn't want to say so. "I suppose I just like to know the scope of things," she replied carefully. "How they'll turn out."

Mrs. Diggory's eyes crinkled, though the smile never reached her mouth. "Permit the artist a bit of mystery, Hermione. The glory is as much in the unfolding as in the final denouement. You will know the full story by summer solstice."

"Mum?"

The crowd had parted again, this time to admit Cedric. He made his awkward way over and mother and son exchanged a kiss on the cheek, then he turned to see the painting, head tilted just so . . .

And the obvious struck Hermione like the proverbial ton of bricks. Alicia had been right. "It's _you_," she muttered, amazed and slightly . . . put off. His own mother had turned him into a fertility symbol? Wasn't that a bit obscene?

Except nothing this exquisite could be obscene. It celebrated youth and fertility, certainly, but painted by the hand of a proud mother aware of her son's beauty, not lustful after it. It was erotic, but holy, not lurid or lewd. If Lucy Diggory was guilty of anything, it was of enough hubris to turn her mortal child into a god.

And indeed, face flaming, he said, "It's not me. It's not a _portrait_."

Mrs. Diggory had drawn back, slipping the hood of her green robes over her hair, and the rest of the crowd was listening in with almost prurient interest. "I meant you were the model," Hermione clarified softly. She didn't mean to embarrass him in public, but it was so beautiful . . . _he_ was so beautiful.

"I modeled for the sketches, yes," he said, no longer looking at it, or her. "That doesn't make it me. It's the Hunter." And turning, he would have left except yet a third person had arrived on the scene.

"_Hem, hem." _Dolores Umbridge was elbowing her way through. "What is this?" She stopped in front of the painting, a bit slack-jawed as she gaped up at it.

Abruptly, she turned on the crowd of students. "Shoo! Shoo! What are you doing, standing around staring at this filth? Good heavens! I can't believe the Headmaster would allow such a thing to be hung in a _school_!" Spinning back, mouth still agape, she reached up to yank the painting off the wall --

-- but it wouldn't budge. Almost hissing in fury, Umbridge pulled her wand and muttered a spell. The painting still couldn't be moved, and Hermione recalled the portrait of Mrs. Black at 12 Grimmauld Place. Students had begun to snigger at Umbridge's increasingly frantic attempts to remove it.

"I said go!" Umbridge snarled, turning on them. Some of her curls had been loosened by her efforts and one half-covered her beady little eyes -- which came to rest squarely on Cedric. "What do you know of this?" she demanded.

He shrugged. "Nothing, professor. Honestly -- it came as a surprise to me too." Hermione didn't think it an especially welcome surprise, either.

Umbridge's eyes narrowed but Mrs. Diggory stepped out from where she'd concealed herself behind Hermione, and lowered her hood. Students who'd begun to scatter paused, recognizing a dramatic moment like the climax to a play. "My hand set it there, Dolores. Only mine can remove it."

Umbridge trembled with rage. "Get it down. Now. I won't have pornography in my school!"

"_Your_ school? And it's _art,_ Dolores. Not pornography. But you never were very good at art appreciation, were you? I've seen your collection of decorative cat plates."

Suppressed squeals of hysteria greeted that and Hermione was biting her lips, having been told about the plates by Harry. Cedric, amazingly, appeared as calm as his mother.

Drawing herself up to her full (and unimpressive) height, Umbridge said, "I _order_ you to -- "

"You have no authority over me." The words were an alto whip to Umbridge's slightly girly whine. "The painting is a gift. I will not remove it."

Stepping past Umbridge, Lucy -- Lucretia -- Diggory pulled her wand and swept it over the surface of the painting.

The whole scene changed. The near-naked god disappeared, leaving the clearing quiet and empty but for the animals. Turning back to those watching, she said in a raised voice. "The painting has now been set. It will tell its story between All Hallow's Eve and Summer Solstice, but the final scene will appear on the 24th of June."

Hermione heard Cedric draw a ragged breath.

24th June had been the day his whole life had changed, and his mother had done that on purpose. She no more than her son would have forgotten the date, and looking up at Cedric's stark face, Hermione wondered how his mother could wound him that way, turn his tragedy into the climax of a story?

Spinning on her heel, Mrs. Diggory started to depart through the scattered clumps of watching students -- then paused. "Oh, I nearly forgot." And she pulled a package of moderate size from beneath her robes. It was wrapped in black velvet. "This is yours," she said to Cedric.

Balanced on his crutches as he was, he obviously couldn't take it, but Hermione caught his mother's nod and stepped forward to collect it for him, the velvet falling away a bit as she accepted it. A faint blue glow and a hint of crystal and silver told her what it was.

The Triwizard Cup. Breath hissing in, she uncovered it completely and held it up.

Awed silence blanketed the hall as everybody stared. After a moment, Hermione tucked the velvet back around it and returned to Cedric's side as Mrs. Diggory walked away, her green robes billowing slightly -- a queen exeunt the stage. Hermione heard a whoosh behind and turned in time to see Umbridge Levitate her own cloak over the painting to conceal it. Then she turned to glare at everybody still standing there, Cedric -- the model -- in particular, before marching away . . . or waddling really.

As soon as both women were gone, the buzz of chatter began, although subdued in Cedric's vicinity. "Are you sure your mother's a painter?" Hermione asked under her breath, even as Ron and Harry joined them. "I would've guessed an actress -- or a director. I'd swear she'd _staged_ that whole thing, except she couldn't have known Professor Umbridge would show up."

"That was bloody brilliant," Ron agreed.

"You'd be surprised what she can orchestrate. Let's go to breakfast," Cedric said and headed for the Great Hall. But before he got far from the painting, he lifted a hand almost absently. The cloak went flying to sag into a puddled heap on the floor. "Whoops," he said.

Hermione tucked the Cup under her right arm and let her left hand tangle in the back of his robes. Lucy Diggory wasn't the only one with a flare for drama when he forgot to be embarrassed.

* * *

Cedric was, in fact, torn between pride and pain -- and anger, too -- rather than embarrassment.

His mother had made those sketches the summer before last -- when he'd been whole, when movement hadn't had to be planned out in advance . . . how to get from here to there even when it was just across a room. He'd been free and strong. When he'd told Hermione the painting wasn't him, he hadn't meant only because it wasn't a portrait. He would never again be that boy who'd _stood_ -- without assistance -- for his outline to be caught in charcoal. Unlike the god, he was mortal, and marred.

Yet while it might not be a portrait, it was still a transparent allusion. The painting had not, originally, been meant for Hogwarts, and this was his mother's revenge on the Ministry for what they'd done to him. She never moved quickly, his mother -- but when she did, it was devastating, and he wondered what story her painting would tell. He doubted it was the obvious one she'd intended of the Summer King and the seasons, and she must have been working in a frenzy since July or August. Her paintings usually took a year or more, like _Ragnarok_, her masterpiece. But this she'd produced in only three months, and even if she'd had some of the layers completed in advance, he wondered if she'd slept.

Hermione didn't leave him once they were in the Hall, but sat at the Hufflepuff table, the Triwizard Cup, still covered, on the bench beside her. He saw several of his Housemates glance at it, but no one asked to see it. No one said much of anything, in fact, as if unsure what to say. Even Scott's wisecracking was silenced.

Cedric managed to finish half his eggs and bacon before his appetite deserted him completely, and he put down his fork. Leaning in to Hermione, he whispered, "Let's get out of here." They had perhaps half an hour before their first classes and he couldn't bear the stares anymore.

Nodding, she followed him from the Hall, still carrying the Cup, and they slipped into the alcove with the lift that took them up to the fifth floor where he led her down to his room.

They hadn't been alone in here, even the outer chamber, since they'd begun publicly seeing each other. It wasn't wise. Just at the moment, though, he didn't care, and sank down on the sofa. She settled beside him after setting the Cup on his desk. "I don't know what to think," she confessed after a moment. "I mean on the one hand, that whole thing was quite brilliant. But I can't believe she did that to you. She's your _mother._"

He closed his eyes, not sure how to explain. "She loves me," he said softly.

Hermione coughed skeptically. "If that's how she shows her love -- "

"It is. Don't judge her, Granger."

"I'm not . . . well, all right, I suppose I am a bit. But it hurt you, embarrassed you, showing you half-nude like that in front of everybody" -- and that made him smile because it was the least of his worries -- "and then setting the story to finish on . . . _that _day."

"That's the point."

"Well, yes, but -- "

"This is her revenge. Or her vengeance, really. There's nothing Umbridge can do to stop it now, and with my mother's status as an artist, Umbridge doesn't dare attack her. She'll probably try to keep the painting covered up, but it won't stay that way -- you watch. I'll never have to uncover it again."

"But . . . I mean . . . aren't you a bit . . . embarrassed?"

He cracked an eye to look at her. "Of what?"

"Being . . . er -- please tell me you didn't sit for that in the nude!"

He laughed at her. "My mother's an artist, Granger. She can fill in the gaps without me stripping, but I don't really care about that anyway." He shrugged. Perhaps it was the effect of growing up surrounded by art, but his modesty had never extended to his body. "I just don't . . . I don't like to see it. It's how I _was_. Not how I am now."

And the hard frown on her face eased, as if she finally understood. "You're beautiful, Cedric."

"Was, maybe. Not anymore. Now I'm damaged and _defective_."

"Nonsense!" And reaching out almost hesitantly, her hand stroked his chest through his robes and shirt, up and down, up and down. Then she pushed up his sweater and began to undo the buttons. He didn't stop her, just watched, curious as to how far she'd go. This seemed uncharacteristically forward for his Granger, but her face was determined. Getting half the front open, she paused to loosen his tie, then undid the rest and parted the fabric, bending to kiss his bared skin. He shivered once and let his head fall back. "You are beautiful," she whispered again, "_just_ like you are." Her tongue traced wet and hot from one clavicle down diagonally across his sternum, curling over his stomach and stopping just above the waistband of his trousers. It was, he knew, the pattern of the serpent from the painting, and he watched her from under half-lowered lids. Lifting her head again, face very pink and shy, she whispered, "You're beautiful and I love you . . . just the way you are."

He shuddered again as if her words were molten, searing him. Closing his eyes, he reached out to pull her to him, holding her tight and finding her mouth by feel. "I love you too," he whispered back, voice intense, "I love you too." And he kissed her as she buttoned up his shirt and adjusted his tie, taking care of him because that was how Hermione showed her devotion.

He felt all right now. He might not have the life he'd expected, but that life hadn't had Hermione in it. If he were his mother's Cernunnos, then Granger was his Cerridwen, the Green Lady, mistress of divine knowledge brewed in her cauldron. "I love you," he said yet again, repeating it like an incantation that could bind her to him forever.

* * *

He'd said he loved her. He'd said it three times, in fact, as if repetition added force, or he feared she hadn't heard him the first time.

Hermione lived that Friday in a glittering cloud. Even Ron and Harry noticed. "What's wrong with you?" Ron asked her after lunch.

"Nothing," she said, suppressing a ridiculous, private giggle. Had it been Harry alone, she might have confessed, but Ron would want to argue about it, and Hermione was in no mood to argue with Ron. Right now, she just wanted to be in love, not defend her right to the feeling.

Cedric wasn't at lunch. Worried as to why, Hermione caught Scott to inquire where he was. "Eating with his mum," Scott replied, which made sense. If her mother had a reason to visit Hogwarts, Hermione wouldn't have missed lunch with her either. Still, she was disappointed. Now she wouldn't see him until supper, and maybe he wouldn't even be there.

But he was waiting for her in his usual spot near the lift in the entrance hall, and when she ran to meet him, throwing her arms around him (without knocking him over), she blurted in his ear, "Love you."

"Love you, too," he replied, grinning like a fool. "Thought about it all day."

"Me too," she replied even as he was drawing her further into the alcove, getting the lift door open and pulling her inside. "Where are we going?" she asked.

"Nowhere." The door slid shut and he pushed her against the back of the lift, kissing her hard, tongue stroking hers. There was a handrail there that dug into her lower back but it gave him something to hold onto as he leaned against her and she felt his whole body in a way she rarely could. She liked it, and arched more firmly against him, which got the rail out of her back but dragged a funny sound from his throat. He drew away. "We should go to dinner." Though he hadn't seemed that interested just a moment ago. She followed him out of the lift and he glanced back at her over his shoulder, face alight. When they parted for their respective tables, he said, "I'll see you after in the Common Room."

Mrs. Diggory, however, caught Hermione as she was exiting the Great Hall. "If I may have a word with you?" she asked politely. Hermione nodded and tried to conceal her nerves. There weren't many adults who outright intimidated her, but Lucy Diggory was among them. "Let's walk," Mrs. Diggory said and led Hermione out of the castle into the night air.

Once they were clear of the castle, she turned to face Hermione. The evening was cold and the moon at quarter, so the only real light fell from the castle windows above them. "How is my son adjusting this year?"

Hermione blinked. "Shouldn't you ask him?"

She smiled. "And you think he would tell me the truth?"

"Why wouldn't he?" Hermione was suspicious and reluctant to give up anything.

Mrs. Diggory began walking again. "Tell me. If you had been wounded as Cedric was, would you tell your father you were having trouble adjusting?"

Frowning, Hermione didn't reply at first but when Mrs. Diggory raised her eyebrows, she had to shake her head. "Probably not."

"And why not?"

"I wouldn't want him to worry."

Mrs. Diggory smiled. "Exactly. But parents worry about their children anyway, and sometimes we worry more when we're not told anything. What we imagine is worse than the truth. I try not to smother him. He's an adult now. Nonetheless -- how is he?"

Should she answer that, she wondered? Although Mrs. Diggory didn't seem to be inquiring in the same way Mrs. Weasley would have, after having brought _that _painting here for public display, her professed concern for Cedric's feelings felt hypocritical. Hermione might have said something -- almost did -- but feared angering her new boyfriend's mother. "He doesn't talk much about it," she said finally, which was true.

Mrs. Diggory eyed her. "And you're afraid to tell me and betray his confidences?"

Hermione shook her head. "No -- he really doesn't talk much about his feelings." She shrugged. "He's a boy."

"How do _you_ think he's adjusting?"

She felt more comfortable answering that as it involved only what she thought. "He doesn't want to be pitied, or to worry people -- like you said. I think there are things he doesn't talk about. A few weeks ago as we were leaving his office, his right leg collapsed on him -- some sort of spasm. I've never seen that happen before, but from the way he reacted, I don't think it was the first time. He didn't want me to fetch Madam Pomfrey, either -- said it would pass in a few minutes, and it did."

"But you fetched Madam Pomfrey anyway?"

"Yes, of course." And Hermione caught Mrs. Diggory smile before turning her head away and she thought the other woman approved. "Boys can't be trusted to be sensible about such things."

"No, they usually can't," Mrs. Diggory agreed. "Cedric is more sensible than most -- I made sure of it -- but he hates to be a burden. You'll have to keep an eye on him, Hermione. Handle him matter-of-factly and he'll respond best. If he thinks he's inconveniencing anybody, he'll grow stubborn."

Hermione nodded, relieved that she'd guessed rightly that day in Hogsmeade when he'd been so frustrated and depressed. "Has he always been like that? Even as a child?"

"Always," Mrs. Diggory replied. "He was the sweetest boy I've ever known -- and I don't say that as his mother. It's in his nature, that gentleness, so he's learned to keep his distance from most people in order to avoid being hurt." She stopped walking again; they weren't far from Hagrid's darkened hut and it was so dim out here, it was difficult to see. All Hermione could really make out of the woman beside her was a glisten from her eyes and the moonlight in her dark blond hair. "Be careful with my son, Hermione Granger. He's let you inside the gates."

Perhaps Hermione should have expected such a warning, but she'd been lulled by Mrs. Diggory's apparent wish to talk about how Cedric was adjusting. "I don't intend to hurt him," she answered -- a bit hotly because she felt cornered.

Cedric's mother only smiled, or Hermione thought she did. "You misunderstand me. That wasn't a threat; had I meant to threaten you, I'd have been much clearer about it. I know you don't _intend_ to hurt him. That was advice on how to avoid doing so. My son seems tougher than he is; he's learned to wear armor. I taught him. Beneath that, however, he's easily wounded. A bit of honest commentary from you could feel to him like a personal attack, yet he'll rarely confront you about it. Cedric runs from conflict, at least with anyone he cares about. He'll give in rather than fight with you -- but then resent you afterwards. The only way to make him fight is to make him angry enough to lash out. He hates conflict, but he does have a temper. You may need to use it sometimes."

Hermione could only stand there, blinking stupidly. She hadn't expected Cedric's mother to tell her how to manage him. Was that granting her blessing? Hermione supposed so. It put a little courage into her. "If you know how sensitive he is, then why did you put him on display like that in the Entrance Hall? It hurt him."

"That didn't hurt him," his mother replied. "He's been my model before. It annoyed him because he didn't know I meant to do it, but as the lines of communication in and out of the castle are being watched, I had no way to forewarn him. I had to put up the painting at night and as soon as I arrived -- before Dolores Umbridge could think of a way to prevent me from doing so. I already spoke with Cedric about it at lunch."

"Oh." Mrs. Diggory's actions appeared somewhat different after an explanation. "But it _did_ still hurt him. He looked at that painting and saw himself before. He thinks he's ugly now."

That caused his mother to give her a sharp look. "And do you intend to let him continue to think so?"

Surprised again, Hermione blinked. "No! I told him he wasn't! But the painting reminds him -- makes him angry."

"He needs to be angry. Remember what I just told you. Anger is what gives him strength. I love my son, but I know his faults. His desire to avoid making anybody upset with him saps his potential. That painting is here as much to goad him as for any other purpose. I want him angry, Hermione. He needs it to fight back, or the Ministry will eat him alive." She tilted her head. "Learn when to protect him -- and when not to. I can't watch over him just now, and not only because he'd resent it. As I said, we can't trust that messages in and out of the castle aren't being read. In fact, you should assume they are. That means I need someone here who can look after Cedric, including by prodding him when he needs it."

It was a compliment and a rebuke and an assignment all in one, and Hermione bowed her head. "Yes, Mrs. Diggory."

"A second bit of advice -- when it comes to plots, seek Cedric's help. You're a clever girl but that meeting in the Hog's Head was just this side of idiotic. Dolores Umbridge is crueler than you can imagine, and craftier. Fudge didn't send her here to tangle with Dumbledore for no reason. The worst thing you could possibly do is underestimate her -- and you've been doing so."

Eyes downcast but angry now herself, Hermione said, "I was just trying --"

"I know what you were trying to do. Trying is noble, but useless. Succeed, don't try."

Hermione glared, unused to being told off so bluntly, except by Snape. Even McGonagall wasn't that rudely honest. Yet unlike Snape's scolding, there was no edge of malice in this, and the fact that Mrs. Diggory had just confided in her how to take care of Cedric made it clear she didn't dislike Hermione.

"So ask my son's advice," Mrs. Diggory finished now. "You need his bent mind as much as he needs your strength."

* * *

With Hermione gone off somewhere with his mother -- and what was that about? -- Cedric felt at loose ends; it was the first evening he hadn't spent with Granger since they'd begun publicly seeing each other. Finally, he retreated to the Hufflepuff common room. Scott looked up when he arrived. "Well hullo, stranger!"

"What?" Cedric replied, a bit guilty. "I still come here."

Grinning, Scott just shook his head and returned to his text. Cedric joined his friends in 'their' corner of the common room, plopping down on the couch beside Ed. "You come once in a blue moon," Ed said.

"Yeah," Peter added. "You and Hermione are glued at the hip now."

He looked between all three of them. "I still do stuff with you! I make a point of it!"

"As long as she's there too, sure."

"I thought you liked her!""

"We do," Ed assured him. "She's good for you. But you're not sleeping here anymore, and maybe we'd like to see you without her sometimes? Some things can't be talked about with her around."

"Yeah, like Scott's latest conquest," Peter added slyly -- which got the two-fingered salute from Scott.

Feeling duly chastised, Cedric sat up. "Who is it this time?"

Cedric stayed in the common room for the rest of the evening until nine, when he needed to leave for evening report. Making his way upstairs, he found Blaise Zabini, of all people, standing in front of his mother's now-quiescent painting. Zabini had probably been on the way down to the dungeons for the evening and he started visibly when Cedric reached the top of the short staircase. (Ascending stairs, he was usually quieter than when he was walking -- there was less foot drag.)

For a moment, the two of them regarded each other carefully across the distance. "Your mother's name is Lucretia?" Zabini asked.

"Yes."

"Someone" -- he didn't specify who -- "told me she was in Slytherin House."

"She was."

Cedric watched Zabini ponder that. Name and House told the other boy that Cedric's mother was likely a pureblood. But, "_You're _no pureblood."

"No, I'm not."

"Mongrel," he spat. "And your mother's a blood traitor."

"I might be less of a mongrel than you, Zabini."

With a hiss, the other boy jerked his head up. "Don't insult me."

"My father's great-grandfather married a Muggleborn witch, it's true," Cedric said, crossing the distance so that he stood between Zabini and the painting. "That's . . . four generations back for me. Before that? Cornish pureblood. And my mother can count her lineage into the 1600s. What about you?" He smiled faintly. "I know about the matrilineal Bantu. I actually bothered to look it up, unlike most of your House. You count lineage only by _mothers_. Should I ask how pure your father was?"

"Shut your mouth, Diggory, or I'll shut it for you.'

"Royalty marries as they need to in Tanzania, and you're no pureblood by European definitions -- you just pretend to be. By Bantu definitions, I'm as pure as you are -- maybe more so."

Zabini leaned in so that his face was only a few inches from Cedric's. "Then that makes _you_ the blood-traitor, doesn't it? Dirtying yourself with that piece of mudblood filth? Is she really such a good fuck?"

Cedric came within a breath of losing his temper, but he wouldn't let Zabini take control of this chance encounter -- too much rode on it. "Wouldn't you like to know?" he asked, then changed the subject. "Did you think about what I said in the library a few weeks ago?"

"You said several things -- none of which made much sense. Why should I remember any of it?"

"You're as curious as your cat, Zabini. I bet you've been thinking about it ever since."

"Don't flatter yourself."

Cedric ignored that. "You've been thinking about it, wondering if you could do it -- _replace Malfoy_." He paused, then added, "I may be able to help you."

Zabini laughed, deep and derisive. "How could_ you_ possibly help me, Diggory?"

"Malfoy keeps his power because the House lets him, and people in other Houses acknowledge him. What if those other Houses stopped acknowledging him and looked to someone else as the voice of Slytherin? I know you have your own posse there , as does Malfoy, but there are those who follow whoever looks strongest. Slytherin doesn't think enough about using external influence, and like I said before, that's a shame. Malfoy hasn't made himself popular outside; he's consistently abused his powers as a prefect. You know how many complaints I have about him? No one not in Slytherin likes him, and I'd wager a good portion of Slytherin doesn't either." Tipping his head, Cedric gave Zabini his best smile, the one his mates teased him raised female blood pressure. Zabini's pupils widened slightly; he wasn't completely indifferent. "What if the Head Boy asked Zabini's opinion when it came to Slytherin, not Malfoy the prefect's?"

"All that'd do is make me a pariah in-House, you fool. No one crosses the Malfoys."

"Except another Malfoy. Or a Black, or a Lestrange, or --"

"Point taken, but none of those families have students at Hogwarts."

"But they do. There's another Malfoy here."

And that riveted Zabini's attention, but only momentarily. "Stop playing games, Diggory. There are no Malfoys at Hogwarts besides Draco, or they'd be in Slytherin and firmly in Draco's corner."

"Not necessarily," Cedric replied. "The other Malfoy is no friend to Draco. He might help you. For a favor."

"Ah, a favor." And Zabini relaxed; things were sounding familiar to him now. "I wonder what that could be? But the real question is what Malfoy in his right mind would send _you_ to play middle man?"

Still smiling, Cedric let the silence lengthen until Zabini began to twitch slightly in anticipation. Then Cedric just pointed to his mother's signature at the base of the painting. "I'm the other Malfoy, Blaise."

And he walked away, headed for the alcove lift. He didn't tell Zabini what he wanted, not yet.

* * *

"So once you activate it -- "

"The story unfolds at the preset pace, yes."

"How many images are in one painting?"

Mrs. Diggory shrugged. "It varies, depending. How many chapters are in a book, or scenes in a play? _Ragnarok_ had thirty-seven -- the most I've ever done. _Daphnis and Chloe_ had only eighteen."

"How many are in _The Summer King_?"

"Ah-ah. That would be telling, clever girl."

Hermione huffed out, but grinned.

When she and Cedric's mother had returned from their walk, Cedric had been nowhere to be found. "Oh, he's in the common room," Ernie MacMillan had informed Hermione when they'd chanced on him. "Do you want me to go and fetch him?"

"No," Mrs. Diggory had replied, "He should spend time with his House."

So Hermione had spent her evening with Cedric's mother instead, and was surprised to discover she rather liked Lucy Diggory. The older woman was witty and interesting, and Hermione had always got on well with adults anyway. Mrs. Diggory explained Wizarding art to her, quite ready to talk about what she did and how it worked, and Hermione followed her about the castle, listening to the history of various portraits and how the process of magical painting worked.

"We still mix our paints from raw bases -- no acrylics or premixed oils. Part of the magic lies in the paint composition. We must distill the essence of the subject for a portrait, or brew the animation needed for a true painting. Then charms and transfiguration give the final its form and movement. Additional scenes can be added to or detracted from it, as well."

"So a portrait contains a copy of the personality, while a painting tells a story?" Hermione asked.

"Essentially, yes. Once in a while, there may be some blending, but that is the primary distinction."

"What was the image we saw this morning? The one of the god himself? When you set the painting, he disappeared."

"What you saw before I set it is called the lead image. All paintings have one. When you see them in a gallery, it's the lead image on display. Passing your wand or hand over the painting will reveal the story in full, like your Muggle cinema."

"But initially, it's slower?"

"Exactly. The initial unveiling of a story has a set period. It cannot be altered or rushed. After that, however, the story can be made to unfold either quickly or slowly."

When nine o'clock passed, Hermione bid Mrs. Diggory good night and went to perform rounds. She was in possession of a sketch or three and an invitation to the London gallery where Mrs. Diggory had promised to show her around personally. "I like your mum," she told Cedric when she arrived for report -- late as usual.

His eyebrow went up. "Should my ears have been burning?"

She laughed and dropped down in his lap where he sat in his wheelchair behind the desk. "Perhaps a bit. But believe it or not, you vain creature, we do have things to talk about besides _you_."

"Oh, really? Such as?"

"Dentistry, artwork, growing up in London. . . . she grew up there, too, you know."

"Yes, Granger, I know." She thought him suppressing a grin, and his hand rested on her thigh atop her robes, rubbing lightly. Reaching up with his other hand, he tangled fingers in her hair, pulling her face towards him. "Now shut up and kiss me. I barely got to see you all day; I feel deprived." Laughing, she did as he ordered. However mad the rest of her life was becoming between Umbridge and Voldemort, it felt good to have this part of it stay happy and uncomplicated.

As she was leaving, crossing the Main Entrance headed for the stairs up to the Gryffindor Tower, she spotted Professor Umbridge standing in front of the painting with its now-empty forest clearing, staring at it with great intensity, as if willing it to give up its secrets. At the sound of Hermione's steps, the woman turned. "Hem, hem. _What_ are you doing out and about at this hour, Miss Granger?"

"I'm a prefect, professor. I was finishing report."

Hands on hips, eyes narrow, Umbridge studied her. "Report this late? I do believe you report to Mr. Diggory, do you not?"

But even as she asked, both Cedric and Violet came down the hall behind Hermione and Umbridge fixed her attention on them. "Are all of your prefects so tardy with their reports? It's been more than half an hour since everyone below a fifth year was to be in their common rooms."

Cedric opened his mouth to reply but Violet beat him to it. "It usually takes twenty to thirty minutes to walk each prefect's quarter of the castle," she explained, voice brisk. That she'd come to their defense startled Hermione. If she'd wanted Cedric's reputation to sink further, all she'd needed to do was remain silent. Glancing at her watch, she said, "Hermione's not especially late. We specified to all the prefects on the train that we'd like them to be done before ten, but she's well inside that."

And faced by their united front, Umbridge pulled in her chin. "Very well, but I think it more appropriate in the future if all female prefects report to the Head Girl, while all boys report to the Head Boy. That's how we did it in my day."

"Professor Umbridge -- " Cedric began, face startled. Making the change Umbridge had suggested would not only deprive the two of them of their time at a day's end, but it would force Cedric to interact daily with Draco Malfoy.

"I don't find it very appropriate, Mr. Diggory, for a girl to be alone with an older boy so late in the evening in his private office, do you?"

Cedric straightened slightly. "Actually, most prefects finish rounds and report about the same time, give or take the early birds or stragglers -- and who that is varies from night to night."

Umbridge glanced from Hermione to him. "But Miss Granger is your girlfriend, is she not? And it seems to me she was the last to leave tonight -- and quite alone. Curious coincidence."

"My door is kept open and Violet's office is right across the lounge," Cedric pointed out, trying not to look affronted. What he said was true, but it was also true that Hermione was always late on purpose, they usually pushed the door as close to as could be without actually latching it, and Cedric's Silencing spell came in very handy.

But Violet was frowning, too. "The current report schedule works and the prefects are used to it. I created it, and I'd rather not change it."

"Oh, but it wouldn't be so much of a change, would it?" Umbridge asked sweetly. "Just a matter of which office each stops by." The smile widened. "Yes, I think this change overdue. Please see it implemented and inform all prefects. We'll have no more girls in boys' offices or boys in girls' offices so late in the evening. Now off to bed, all three of you." And she watched while they went their separate ways, Cedric to the lift, and Hermione and Violet to the staircases leading up to their respective towers. There was no chance to say anything to each other, and Hermione fumed all the way upstairs. Was there no end to that woman's meddling?

* * *

**FEEDBACK IS LOVE. Please don't forget to feed the author. :-)**

**Notes on the Various Mythical References: **Just a quick reminder of the conversation back in Chapter 6**:** not only is Helen the name of Hermione's mother, but in Greek myth, 'Hermione' was the daughter of Menelaus and Helen of Sparta. (Although better known to us as Helen of Troy, she really came from Sparta.) Lucy's reference to Cedric's 'bent mind' is Odyssean ('Bent-Minded' is Odysseus' epithet in Homer), and the allusions in Cedric's poem to reality and shadows reference Plato. Cernunnos is the Celtic fertility-vegetation-hunt deity, who apparently predates the coming of the Romans, although this deity type is found frequently among Indo-European peoples. One of the dying-and-rising gods, consort of the Great Mother, Cernunnos is born at mid-winter and dies at mid-summer. He's sometimes conflated with Herne(/Cerne) the Hunter of Windsor Forest, who's Protector of the Realm, and occasionally associated with Cerridwen, the witch mother of Taliesin who keeps a cauldron in which she brews divine wisdom. The Grail of legend is thought perhaps to have been a later transmutation/Christianizing of Cerridwen's cauldron.


	18. Bitter Pill

Cedric made his first bid to fulfill his promise to Blaise Zabini at Halloween.  Despite what first years sometimes thought, the Great Hall didn't decorate itself.  It fell to fifth, sixth and seventh years, and constituted a lot of hard work -- but was also a chance to show off one's skills, get out of class, and represent one's House.  So it was a task both sought after and avoided, and among the responsibilities that fell to the Head Boy and Girl involved drafting likely labor . . . who traditionally complained about it because they were expected to.

On Sunday evening two days before Halloween, Cedric and Violet made their choices, tapping shoulders (or sending notices by parchment plane in Cedric's case).  Seventh years who had the best magic were among the first chosen, but other draftees typically included prefects as the responsibility would eventually fall on them.  Cedric had been drafted both his fifth and sixth years.

In keeping with Umbridge's new demands, Cedric chose the boys and Violet chose the girls.  He'd have liked to pick all his mates, but that wouldn't look fair, so he restricted himself to Scott, who was the most skilled.  From Gryffindor, he tapped the twins -- which might be a mistake (Violet had looked at him as if he'd lost his mind).  Yet despite their poor marks, Fred and George were among the most creative wizards in that House for their year.  In his parchment invitation he added at the bottom:  _"You set any surprises that you don't clear with me first, and I'll kill you.  I'm not kidding.  They can lock me up in Azkaban.  That said, surprises are not out of the question -- what's Halloween without some scariness? -- just ask me first."_

Fred had sent the plane back with,_ "How could we resist an excuse to skip class?  We'll enjoy knowing you're in Azkaban, Diggory"_ -- which ironically Cedric took to mean they'd comply.  He'd have been a lot more worried if they'd appeared meek about it.  He also suspected that what they'd come up with would eclipse anything seen at the banquet in all seven years he'd been at Hogwarts.  Sometimes Cedric wondered if he and the twins were cheerful enemies or antagonistic friends, and decided it wasn't so easy to draw the line -- probably depended on the day of the week and the weather.

In any case, his other choices were mostly predictable -- until it came to Slytherin.  Traditionally, only two fifth years were ever selected from a House.  Fifth years simply didn't have the grade of magic required and mostly came to watch to learn how it was done for future reference.  From Slytherin's fifth year, Cedric didn't tap Malfoy, but Zabini.  He actually had a reason if anybody asked.  Zabini was better at Charms, and possessed a more artistic eye.  Neither was his real reason.

When Malfoy showed up that night for report, his pale face was flushed with suppressed rage, and he came alone.  Till now, he'd made a point of coming in company and Cedric certainly hadn't minded.  He no more wanted to talk to Malfoy than Malfoy wanted to talk to him.

Tonight was clearly different.  "How dare you not pick me!" Malfoy snapped as soon as he slammed Cedric's office door.  "It's my right to decorate!"

Cedric looked up at him, waving a hand over his quill to keep it writing -- a casual-not-casual demonstration of exactly how much difference in skill lay between them.  "I thought I was doing you a favor?  Don't most people try to get _out_ of decorating?"

And Malfoy was caught.  Complaining about the 'chore' of decorating really was traditional -- with a few exceptions, such as Percy Weasley, who'd been too self-important, or Cedric himself, who simply avoided complaining full stop.  But being chosen was also an honor and a mark of House prestige.

_Not_ choosing Malfoy had been a very deliberate snub, and both Cedric and Malfoy knew it, but Malfoy couldn't, quite, admit it.  "You bastard," Malfoy said instead.  "I know you don't like me."

"Gee, I can't imagine why, Draco dear _cousin_."

"I'm not related to _you_!"

"Trust me, I'd rather forego that honor as well, but there's the little problem of my mother's maiden name.  Besides, last year as I recall, you were quite happy to be related to the Hogwarts Champion."

Slamming both hands down on Cedric's desk, Malfoy bent over it.  "I had no idea then who you were."

"What?  Dad didn't tell you about the little skeleton in the closet?  Or the fact he murdered a man to get the house you grew up in?"

"That's not true!" Malfoy shouted.

"It is true.  Your father expected my grandfather to will him the house when my mother married the wrong person.  But my grandfather never liked your father, and when despite everything he refused to name an heir and my mother gave him a grandson, your father thought my grandfather might reverse his decision and reinstate my mother.  So your father enlisted Death Eaters to _murder_ my mother's father."

The plain fact was Cedric wouldn't have wanted the bloody mansion even if it _had_ been willed to him.  He wasn't a Malfoy and hated them for what they'd done to his mother, but Draco couldn't imagine _not_ wanting it, and that served Cedric's purpose.

"It's not yours," Malfoy snarled now, face flushing even redder.  "Your mother was the bitch who escaped the house in heat and fucked the first mongrel that came along.  You should have been drowned at birth like any mutt."

Slamming down his own hands, Cedric pushed himself to his feet and leaned over to face Malfoy.  "Shut your ugly mouth.  My mother was worth ten of your father.  She's the one with talent.  She's the one who's made a name for herself without depending on her family's.  She's the one who consistently bested your father at every subject here -- including Potions.  Slughorn loved her.  He thought your father was a fuck-up, and the only reason you get high marks in that subject now is because you're Snape's pet.  What other Os have you got to show, Malfoy?  Not a one."

"My marks are quite good enough, and at least I'm not some pretty-faced, crippled swot who wastes time in libraries chasing mudblood arse."

Cedric actually snarled.  Unlike the verbal sword-crossing with Zabini, this was no game of wits and stabs in the dark to see what connected with flesh.  Getting hold of himself, he sat back down and returned his attention to his essay.  The quill had lost force while Cedric's attention had been divided and was now doodling on the paper.  He'd have to erase that.  "Get out of my office, you pathetic, talentless Squib."

Malfoy straightened.  "I'm going to see you brought down, Diggory.  I know who has power around here, and it's not Albus Dumbledore.  Not anymore.  You picked the wrong side of this fight, just like your stupid, fat cow of a mother."

That was the last straw; a boy could take only so much, especially when it came to his mum.  Pulling his wand, he held it aimed at Malfoy -- who immediately backed up.  "Scared of me, little boy?  You should be.  The Goblet didn't choose me for no reason.  Now, get _out_."  Malfoy obeyed.

When Malfoy was gone, Cedric put his wand away and silently berated himself for losing control, as well as for the arrogance of citing his status as Champion.  He struggled so _hard_ not to be vainglorious, but underneath it all, feared he was just a bit.  It was part of why the Triwizard Cup still sat in his room three days after his mother had delivered it.  He couldn't quite bring himself to the boasting (as he saw it) that putting it on display would entail.

On Halloween afternoon during the decorating process, Zabini approached him casually to say, "I don't know whether I should thank you or curse you.  I didn't ask for this."

"You could have turned it down," Cedric pointed out, keeping his attention on the plethora of pumpkins he was levitating overhead.  He'd wondered if he'd have to approach Zabini again or if Zabini would break down and approach him.

"You mentioned a favor," Zabini said now.  "Before you do any more of them for me -- especially unasked -- I want to know what you want, Diggory."

"Not much," Cedric replied, still careful not to look at the younger boy.  "Just show up occasionally in the Hogwarts Common Room.

Zabini shuffled feet, showing nerves for the first time.  "Professor Umbridge has made it clear she thinks your Common Room's a bad idea.  You're asking me to defy her."

Cedric shrugged and finally glanced at Zabini.  "Did she forbid it outright?"

"Well, no."

Cedric shrugged again.  "Then you're not exactly _defying_ her, are you?  Just not sharing her opinion.  Not the same thing.  Bigger risks, bigger rewards.  Explain it to her any way you like.  You show up there -- and more than just once -- and I'll continue to favor you."  He didn't add the corollary; it wasn't necessary.

The next morning, when he passed his mother's painting in the Entrance Hall, he saw that it had begun, whatever her story was.  There was no sign of the god yet, but the forest glade contained more animals, including the pair of badgers in the tree bole, an eagle on a branch above, the hint of golden lion's pelt behind bushes, and a horned snake -- all four Houses momentarily at peace, or at least at truce.

* * *

Hermione dreamed of Cedric.

She didn't, however, know quite what to make of these dreams.  They were heated but non-specific, and woke her with tingling breasts and a dampness between her legs.  She both understood that, and didn't.  She wasn't an ignorant girl, and her liberal, _Guardian_-reading mother had educated her quite thoroughly in where babies came from and how a girl's body developed.  She knew about STDs and precautions and birth control (though she suspected it was quite different in the Wizarding World).  Her mother had told her once -- with that kind of solemnity that indicated An Important Point -- that if she ever 'found herself in trouble,' she could come to her mother and they'd get it fixed.  No judgments.  And she knew she could.  But she also knew she never would, even if it happened.  She couldn't bear to disappoint her parents that way.

Not that she planned to let it happen.  She was far too clever to get herself into such a situation, or to suffer such uncontrollable feelings for a boy.

Except, of course, now she did.  She felt as if some part of her had awoken that she hadn't realized had existed.  When Cedric kissed her, she wanted things she couldn't articulate, things she might have called 'naughty' once, but which now didn't seem so at all.  His kisses weren't naughty.  They were tender and sweet and full of need, as if he wanted to taste every inch of her, eat her up like chocolate.  And he made her feel the same.  Sometimes she was overcome by a desire to split him open and crawl inside.  The intensity of that scared her a little.

Before Cedric, sex had never made much sense to her.  She'd assumed that yes, she too would one day find the right boy, get married, settle down and produce a baby or two.  She'd have sex with her husband because he'd want it -- boys did -- but the whole notion of desiring _that_ up _there_ was just . . . peculiar.  Boys' bits were funny looking, and perhaps a little alarming for being so big and red and, well, _fleshy_.

Not that she thought her own privates any better.  Despite being sixteen, she'd never learned to put in a tampon because it involved _sticking something in there_, which meant she might actually have to look at herself to see what she was doing.  Fortunately, she'd had a period while at the Burrow three years back and Mrs. Weasley -- upon learning she didn't know a thing about Magical female sanitation -- had taught her all the appropriate spells, making tampons completely unnecessary.

The notion of exploring herself hadn't appealed.  Her studied disinterest arose not from any religious objections, but from simple _pride_.  She'd tried masturbation once or twice but found it faintly ridiculous.  Sex and desire distracted a person from important things.  Even her crush on Viktor Krum -- and, if she were honest, Ron Weasley -- had been vague and unformed**:  **emotional more than physical.  She'd liked kissing Viktor; it had caused a tickle inside her chest and tummy.  Yet she'd actively avoided thinking too much beyond that.  Seeing Viktor in a tank top during the Second Task and being held by him in the lake . . . feeling slick, wet, bare skin under her hands . . .  Well, she'd been glad of an excuse to talk to Harry afterwards.  The idea of letting Viktor do more than kiss her had panicked her unduly.  To her relief, he hadn't tried anything else, as if realizing she wasn't ready.

Now, however, she found herself thinking quite a lot about Cedric in a far more specific fashion.  Kissing his naked chest and seeing that painting by his mother had left her wondering how _his_ bits might look, and even how they might feel to her touch.  He caused far more than a tickle in her tummy.  With Cedric, that tickle had migrated south, making her knickers damp.

It was all so _very_ physical.

Nighttime was worst.  At night, her sleeping mind happily went to places the waking one avoided, and the first time she touched herself, it was early morning, she only half awake.  She'd been dreaming, although she couldn't remember quite what about.  Her tummy felt tight, her crotch hot and damp and her nipples erect.  One hand drifted up to touch them while the other drifted down to rub between her legs -- and the resulting double-electric shock made her gasp and jerk her hands away.  She listened to see if the sound had woken her roommates, but apparently not, so her hands drifted back, rubbing and stroking and tugging until her breath caught and her muscles clenched.  She thought of Cedric -- his mouth, his throat, the touch of his hands -- as she dove towards something she didn't fully understand.  It broke over her like water.  Her back arched, her mouth opened and she barely remembered to stop the scream in her throat.  The exquisite sensations went on and on for a full minute until finally, exhausted and spent, she dropped back on the sheets, breath heavy, body shuddering.

She was newly sixteen, but had never given herself an orgasm before.  It was a revelation.  After a moment of simple breathing, she felt her lips curl and tried not to giggle aloud.

So _that's_ what it was all about.  Amazing.

The next day, she met Cedric in the library to study like the good students they were.  But as per their custom, he'd touch her hand before rising to fetch a book he didn't really need.  A few minutes later, she'd follow.  There in the privacy of the stacks, they'd steal some hurried kissing before going back to their work.  Sometimes this happened several times a night and it was a wonder they got actual studying done -- exactly the sort of distraction she'd sworn she'd never fall prey to.  Her sensible side frequently admonished her that she shouldn't study with him if he left her unable to concentrate.

She didn't listen to the sensible side.

After all, they did get their work done -- just perhaps not as much of it as they might have otherwise.

This evening when she caught up to him, he was leaning against a bookshelf and snared her waist with one hand while balancing himself on his other crutch.  His mouth was eager on hers and a little sloppy because he felt kisses, didn't choreograph them, and when he pressed the tip of his tongue to hers, it caused the familiar tingle to ignite in her groin.  Gripping his jaw in both hands, she kissed back as hard as she could, her teeth knocking against his a bit, and for the first time, wondered what it would feel like to have his hands massaging her breasts.  Even the thought of it made her sigh into his mouth.  "Wow," he whispered, pulling away slightly.

"What?"

"Nothing," he replied, and kissed her again.  She leaned into him carefully so as not to overbalance him, and shifted her weight so that her hip hit his crotch -- curious as to whether she did to him what he did to her.  Unfortunately, she wasn't at all sure what she was feeling; was that a bulge or her imagination?  And if a bulge, did it come from a zipper or an erection?  How did one tell an erection anyway?  She felt a strange blend of curiosity, analytical distance, and passion.  He pulled away again after a moment to ask, "You all right?"

"Yes, fine," she whispered back.  "Why?"

"You seem a bit . . . intense, Granger."

And she felt herself blush.  "Sorry."

"No, no -- I like it."  He was smiling.  "I like it.  Focused."  He laughed a little, kissed her once, hard, full on the mouth, and straightened.  "We should go back to the table and finish working."

She nodded.  But as they sat side by side, individually absorbed in their studies, she began to wonder if she'd put him off, whatever he'd said.  What if he didn't like forward girls?  She didn't want him to think her sluttish.  When they packed up finally, she to do evening rounds and he to await reports in his office, he smiled at her.  "Can you slip in to see me after reporting to Violet?" he asked.

"I'll try," she replied.

Ever since Umbridge had forced all the female prefects to report to the Head Girl, saying goodnight to Cedric had become difficult.  At first, Umbridge had shown up in the prefects' lounge to be sure her orders were being followed and speaking to Cedric was impossible.  That had lasted only a few days, however, and by Halloween, Umbridge seemed to have decided she'd made her point.  After the banquet, with no Umbridge there, Hermione had snuck into his office.  They'd dared only five minutes, but made full use of it, and Violet hadn't given them away.  For that, Hermione could forgive the Head Girl's continued disinterest in Cedric's Common Room idea.

Tonight when she sidled in, she let him come to her, lift her chin, his lips on hers.  She played the demure maid until, after a minute, he pulled away.  "Now what?" he asked.

"Now what, what?"

"In the library, I thought you were going to eat me alive.  Now, I'm afraid I might break you if I kiss you too hard.  You're a tough one to figure out sometimes, Granger."  He sounded mildly frustrated.

Rubbing her nose and feeling equally unsure, she said, "I thought maybe you, um, didn't like the library.  I mean, what I was doing."

His expression was pure bafflement.  "I said I liked it."

"Well, yes, but, um, you wanted to stop and go back to work.  I didn't . . . well, you know . . . I thought you might think badly of me."

And now she couldn't tell if he were more puzzled or more irritated.  Moving backwards a few steps, he settled himself on the edge of his desk, pulling off his crutches and leaning them beside him.  "What the devil are you on about?"

She blew hair out of her face.  "I'm not . . . like that.  Easy."

His mouth dropped open.  It was rather funny looking.  "Whatever made you think I'd think you _were_?"

Confused, embarrassed and feeling completely out of her depth, she said, "You wanted to go back to the table.  I thought maybe I'd . . . offended you.  You said I was intense."

"And I said I _liked_ you intense.  What part of that did you not understand?"

"You wanted to go back to the table!"

"Because if I didn't stop then, I wouldn't have wanted to stop at all and we were standing in the middle of the library!  Well, more or less."

They paused, staring at each other.  His words cast his actions in a new light.  "Oh," she said.  He was blushing, cheeks all pink and ears bright red.  "Okay.  I'm sorry.  I wasn't . . . trying to do that."

"Sometimes you send me right round the bend," he admitted.  "I try to control myself.  I don't want to push you."

She smiled and moved over to where he was sitting until her knees bumped his.  He parted his legs so she could move into the V of them, his arms around her waist, hers around his shoulders.  She kissed him, but gently with a closed mouth.  "I'm not trying to be a tease," she told him.

"I know you're not."

Moving even closer, she pressed up against him.  "Don't worry about pushing me.  I'll tell you to stop if I want you to."  Leaning in, she kissed him again, still gently.  "Maybe I'm not sure where _I _want to stop.  But I don't want to push _you_, or make you uncomfortable."

Breathless, he laughed.  "Push me all you want."

"I don't always know what I'm doing."

"I'd say you guess pretty damn well then."

Giggling at that, she pushed her face into the side of his, nuzzling.  "It's how you kiss," she confessed.

"What?"

"Like you're . . . I don't know.  Trying to figure it out.  Or that's not right.  You kiss like it's a question and you're waiting for the answer, or it's a journey, and you're finding the way.  I like that.  This is _all_ a journey for me.  I'm trying to find the way."

He was laughing, as if embarrassed.  "I'm glad you like how I kiss.  You're not so bad yourself."

She licked the point of his jaw, "So you don't mind backing up on the road a little?"

He'd raised his chin so she could get at the soft skin of his neck.  She could feel the bristle of his beard against her lips and tongue.  "Roads go two ways, Granger," he whispered, but as if he were starting to lose interest in talking.  "It's not like you always have to walk in one direction or you're backing up.  I like this, too.  I like holding your hand.  I like just talking to you sometimes, sitting next to you.  It's not a race to some imaginary finish line."

Smiling against his skin, she traced the muscle along one side of his neck with her tongue.  He gasped, his hands tightening on her hipbones, pulling her lower body closer.  And yes, she did think that just might be the bulge of an erection pressing into the hollow of her hip.

Letting her mouth drift back up to his, she kissed him again -- softly, all lips -- then pulled away to meet his eyes.  The pupils were so dilated, the gray made only a slim ring around the outside.  "I should go," she said.

"Probably.  I'll see you after breakfast."  And raising a hand, he brushed the side of it down her nose.  "'Night, poppet."

She pretended to nip at the hand, then headed back to her room.  That night when she touched herself, she imagined the hands were his even though she knew herself some way from letting them _be_ his.  Eventually they'd get that far, but for now, it was enough that the hands were hers -- and she no longer felt embarrassed to use them to discover what felt good.

* * *

Cedric's own situation was at once more and less clear.  He knew exactly what he wanted to do with Granger.  His problem lay in figuring out what _she_ wanted and if she even knew what came next.

He wasn't forward in relationships.  He'd never needed to be, and had left it to the girls to tell him how fast to move or how far they'd let him go; they led and he followed.  He'd lost his virginity in his fifth year to a Chaser in her seventh -- Zoë Smythe, who he'd quite genuinely liked, but had been a bit in awe of like every other male member of the Hufflepuff Quidditch team.  He'd not have dreamed of pursuing her had she not made it abundantly clear that all the captain had to do was ask, fifth-year or not.  The next year, he was seduced by another seventh year who he subsequently discovered was more interested in getting into his trousers than into his head.  He didn't like being a notch on a bedpost and broke it off, asking a girl younger than him (for a change) to the Yule Ball.  He'd thought he might be less overmatched, but again, Cho had taken the reins and he'd let her.

He felt oddly relieved that he and Hermione had at least talked about the physical side of things -- however vaguely.  He'd never _talked_ about it with anybody else.  In fact, after only five weeks of seeing Zoë, a session of heavy petting involving hands down track suit bottoms in the Hufflepuff locker room had suddenly turned into something else.  She'd ditched her bottoms, shifted her underwear, angled his cock, and settled down on him just like that.  He'd found himself suddenly _inside_ without warning, and his body had caught on faster than his brain.  He'd finished almost before he'd got started.  Afterwards, he'd wondered if he shouldn't feel more excitement and less confusion?  But he hadn't been ready.  Yet weren't boys always ready?  Relationships since had been no better.  He'd let himself be enticed or led on.  Sex was easier to justify in the heat of the moment, but more disconcerting.

He found he wasn't interested in the heat of the moment anymore, and hadn't been placating Hermione when he'd said roads were for traveling both ways, not for reaching an end-point.  Sometimes he worried about her lack of experience, but other times, he was glad of it.  He could slow down too.

His body just didn't want to listen, and the problem with 'the heat of the moment' was that it really _was_.  When she kissed him like she had in the library, his ability to think shut down.  And it wasn't just lust; with her in his arms, a gut-shaking tenderness took over.  Combined with his need, it overwhelmed.  He wanted desperately to be inside her as much for psychological as physical reasons.  It didn't help that she'd developed a fascination with the bright turmoil she could elicit in his body without quite understanding what a pleasant torture it was -- innocent power, but it still left him at her mercy.

It also made him decide he couldn't sit back anymore and let the girl lead.  Unlike his other girlfriends, and despite her recent forays into a charming wantonness, Hermione didn't seem to understand what she was doing.  He was going to have to get on the broom and fly, stop watching from the ground.  Having her promise to stop him if he pushed too far too fast helped, and he began to ponder now _before_ seeing her in private exactly what he'd permit himself, drawing a line at touching skin that wasn't normally visible.  In truth, that was no different than where they'd already been, but it was _considered_, and as such, he felt less likely to move beyond it by chance.  He wasn't sure by what sign he'd know her ready for more, but felt he'd recognize it when it came.

Yet it wasn't just his physical relationship with Hermione that caused him internal disquietude of late.

With the beginning of November, Professor McGonagall once again raised the issue of his becoming an Animagus in their Transfiguration lessons.  "I think it's time, Diggory.  You've mastered transfigurations of plants and are moving along quite well with animal transubstantiations.  It's time for you to get a bit more serious about the Animagus transfiguration."

"Professor, I don't think --"

"I _do_ think."  She held his eyes.  "Trust me, you need to learn this."

So he tried taking the first steps.  Yet the problem with magic was that it was ultimately about will, requiring desire as much as raw talent, and never worked well if one felt only half-arsed about it.  He was good at what he did in large part because he knew how to focus, but he didn't want to be an Animagus, so all his attempts at the meditation and centering necessary were largely unsuccessful.  "You're afraid," McGonagall accused him on Friday afternoon before the first Quidditch match of the season.  She'd been pushing him hard of late, and he'd had three private lessons that week, two after hours.  All that in addition to normal class and Harry's DA sessions.

"I don't want to do this!" he exploded back.  "Do you want to see me drag myself around your office by my front legs like some pathetic creature?"

She stared at him for a long moment, then said, "Please sit down."  Bemused, he did so and she sat at her desk across from him.  After perhaps half a minute of just staring at him, she said, "Do you trust me, Diggory?"

Cautiously, he nodded.

"I have some talent not only at performing the Animagus Transfiguration, but at telling who can.  Not everyone has this talent buried inside them.  As you may or may not know, Albus Dumbledore held my current position before becoming Headmaster.  Yet he is no Animagus -- and I don't think either of us would say it's from a lack of raw talent."  She smiled and so did he, almost reflexively.

"To become an Animagus requires something . . . not quite tame inside."  She smiled at his startled expression.  "Something a bit wild that wants to break free.  Animagi not uncommonly come from my least behaved students . . . and my best behaved.  James Potter -- I'm not at all surprised he managed the spell, nor Sirius.  Peter Pettigrew surprised me . . . yet not.  By contrast, and while he could give his father a run for his money, talent-wise, Harry is no Animagus.  People may compare him to his father, but they forget his mother is in there too, and Harry is too . . . civilized."

She smiled again at his expression.  "You, however -- there's something wild in you, something you restrain and wish you didn't have to.  You are _so_ like your mother.  Yet not.  Despite all her gifts at transfiguration, there's nothing intrinsically wild in her.  Instead she was fascinated by wildness.  Your father, had he shown the raw power . . . he could have been an Animagus."

Now she leaned over the desk.  "It's not just knowledge, Diggory.  It's letting out that part of you, releasing it.  Trust me, will you, when I say you won't regret it?  It's something you _need_ to do in order to understand yourself."

He frowned, but nodded and left.  It was strange to think of_ McGonagall _as having something 'wild' inside her -- but perhaps not.  Wouldn't most of Hufflepuff say the same of him?  The odd thing was, he knew -- deep down -- she was right.  He just wasn't sure how to get at that part of himself.  The very thought of doing so scared him a bit, and not because he was afraid that whatever it was would come out crippled.

Later that evening, while he and Hermione sat in the Common Room by the fire, he asked her, "If I could transfigure into an animal, what do you think I'd be?"

Lifting her head from where it rested against his shoulder, she twisted her neck to study him -- not in surprise but as if she were truly considering the question.  They were snuggled on a black couch under a heavy blanket, her back to his front, and if he were normally a bit chary of such public displays, the frigid cold that had gripped the castle following Halloween provided incentive.  They were far from the only couple sharing body warmth, and the room was moderately full for a change.  It was Friday night and there was a great deal of speculation about the Quidditch match on the morrow.  Finally, she admitted, "I have no idea.  What do you think you'd become?"

"I've no idea either."

"A raccoon?" she asked, eyes drifting to where Esiban was playing with a toy Cedric had given him.  The raccoon had a passion for figuring things out, and loved any toy that he had to open -- especially if it had a Bertie Bott's Every Flavor Bean in side.  Just now, Cedric had provided a small box with a latch and he was turning it over and over in his tiny black paws.  It represented a rare burst of activity.  As hard winter approached, Esiban grew increasingly sluggish.  He might not hibernate outright, but he often slept much of the day and night both.

Cedric laughed at her question.  "No, I don't think a raccoon."

"A cat?" she asked next.  Crookshanks was curled up on her stomach atop the blanket and would occasionally deign to accept scratches from Cedric, even if he wasn't fond of Cedric's peculiar cat-not-cat familiar.

"Not a cat," he said.

"A horse maybe?  You have common sense like a horse."  That had made him laugh.  "Or a stag, like Harry'd dad?"  He just shook his head.  "Wait -- I know!  A dolphin!"

"A dolphin?"

"You like to swim.  Dolphins are sea mammals.  It makes sense."

He tilted his head.  He'd honestly never considered a dolphin.  "Maybe."  It still didn't feel right, but before the conversation could go further, Harry showed up with Ron in tow.  They were talking Quidditch and plopped down in chairs nearby.

Turning to Cedric, Harry asked, "How quickly do you think I can beat Malfoy to the Snitch?"

Cedric frowned and felt Hermione slip her hand into his beneath the blanket.  She'd come to realize that Quidditch constituted a topic he preferred to avoid.  "I don't know," he told Harry.  "Depends on how long it hides before showing itself, on which side of the field -- not to mention the weather and wind."

"Supposed to be sunny tomorrow -- just still bloody cold," Ron said -- though he appeared utterly terrified and Cedric remembered it was his first match as Keeper.  The problem with Ron was that when he was on, he was brilliant, when he wasn't, he was terrible -- no middle ground.  Cedric might have chosen a more reliable if less talented Keeper, but it was Angelina's decision.

Hermione responded to Ron's real concerns not his words, sitting up to pat his knee, displacing Crookshanks and dragging the blanket with her.  "You'll be spectacular."

Ron didn't reply, just turned paler, if possible.  Before Harry could comment, however, a hush spread over the room and all four of them looked around.

Blaise Zabini stood in the doorway together with a half-dozen other Slytherin students dressed in heavy cloaks and prominent green scarves.  With a smirk that challenged anybody to stop him, Zabini strutted in, followed by his coterie, and made his way over to the table under the tapestry bearing the Slytherin crest.

Cedric suppressed the grin that threatened to split his face.

He'd _won_.

The Common Room was finally a _common_ room -- all the Houses represented.

"So now they have to come in here and invade our space?" Ron muttered.

"They're not invading space," Cedric replied softly.  "This room is for everybody -- every House.  Besides, I prodded Zabini."

"Why?" Ron replied, clearly surprised.  "And the night before the game?"

"It's not about the _game_, Ron.  Not everything is."

But Harry appeared equally baffled, glancing over at Zabini's group.  "Please tell me you're _not_ going to root for your mother's House?"

Hermione huffed in exasperation and Cedric laughed.  "I won't be rooting for Slytherin, Harry.  But there are more important things than a Quidditch match."

Harry and Ron stared at him as if scandalized, and Cedric resisted laughing again even as he recognized how much he'd changed from a year ago, or two years, when he might have been tempted to respond in the same way, as team captain.

Half an hour later, Harry and Ron departed.  In fact, most of the Common Room had emptied as nine o'clock approached.  Cedric and Hermione stayed cuddled under the blanket, just breathing together, her head resting on his chest as his hand cupped hers under the blanket, thumb sliding back and forth against her wrist.  Sometimes he liked this best of all.  No demands, no pressure to push further, just her body warm all along his.  Crookshanks was sleeping on her tummy again while Esiban had curled up near Cedric's head.  Even their animals were at truce.  "You still haven't brought the Cup," she said after a while, glancing towards the Trophy Room.

"I know."  He dug the enchanted galleon that she'd made out of his pocket and studied it -- not for any particular reason, just because he did so sometimes.  It still amazed him that she'd managed a Protean Charm.  _His_ girl.  He grinned to himself.

"What's so amusing?" she asked, brows drawn together in suspicion.

"Nothing."

"Then why are you grinning at my coin?"

He kissed the crown of her head.  "Because my girl is bloody _brilliant_."  She blushed -- and forgot about the Cup, thankfully.

Before she left for report, she asked, "Walk down with me to the pitch after breakfast?"

"I'm not going, Hermione."

Twisting, she stared.  "Why not?"

"I can't."  He looked at her.  "Don't tell Harry, all right?  Let him think I'm there rooting for him."

She cupped his cheek.  "I'll stay with you.  I don't care about Quidditch anyway."

But he smiled and shook his head.  "No, you need to go for Harry and Ron both."  He kissed her nose and confessed, "I'd rather be by myself, poppet."

Understanding, she nodded.  "All right."  And that was part of why he loved her.  She did understand.

Next morning, Cedric slept late and didn't leave his rooms until he was fairly sure the castle had emptied, then only left for the prefects' bath next door where he swam for an hour.  Returning to his rooms afterwards, he got out his journal and sat down to write.  Once more, his thoughts emerged in poetry rather than prose as he struggled to capture the painfully intense emotions Hermione drew out of him.  Then he tried to read for Charms, but the longer he spent alone, the more his thoughts drifted down towards the pitch and what was happening there.  Frustration, bitterness and longing all made him a bit sick to his stomach, but he didn't really care about the game.

He just wanted to _fly_ again.

Getting up from the couch, he returned to his desk where he pulled out the journal once more.  Opening it and staring at the page a moment, he picked up his quill.

_I dream of wind swept, swooping turns, fingers stretched in longing --_  
_ Freedom eludes me.  __My wings are clipped, feet jessed.__  
I fly no more.  _

It wasn't long or particularly profound, but all his frustration lay there.  Shutting the journal again, he put it away.  His legs were aching a bit more than usual even though he hadn't done much that day -- the one didn't always reflect the other -- so he took some Abdoleo and caught a nap on the couch, waking to a frantic pounding on his door.  Rolling over and sitting up -- a bit worried -- he called, "Come in."

Hermione burst through, wild hair a mess and pink-cheeked.  The frazzled expression on her face made him blurt out, "What happened?" before she could say a word.

"Slytherin made up a song to make fun of Ron who played really badly and then Harry and George attacked Malfoy and Hooch sent them to McGonagall's office and Ernie told Lavender who told me that he saw Umbridge going up there looking all smug."

That had all come out in a single breath.  Now she stood wringing her hands and looking at him as if he could do something.  "I can't go bursting into McGonagall's office, Granger," he said, exasperated.  "Can you back up a bit and go over it again?  Slytherin made up what song about Ron?  And Harry attacked Malfoy because of a song?"

"Well, no, not exactly --"

Before she could say more, however, half of Hufflepuff -- or at least everyone in Harry's DA -- arrived outside his door.  "Hey, Hermione," Ed said as he barged in without invitation, followed by Scott and Peter, and Ernie, Hannah, Justin, Susan and Zach, as well.  To Cedric, Ed said, "Word is Umbridge threw Potter and the twins off the Gryffindor team -- permanently."

"What?" Hermione shrieked -- obviously she'd missed that.

"Just heard from Angelina," Ed said.  "Lifelong ban.  Ange's frantic."

"What the ruddy hell did they _do_?" Cedric asked, astonished.

"Not that much," Ed said, "just the same thing we've wanted to do every time we play Slytherin, which is beat the living shite out of Malfoy.  Well, not exactly -- you know how he whinges.  Still, I'd say, given the amount of blood, they at least cracked his nose until Pomfrey got a hold of him."

"About damn time," Scott muttered.

"Are they out of their minds?" Cedric asked.  He'd been putting on his braces and now grabbed his crutches, rising to cross and stand in their midst by his open door.  Hermione slid her arm around his waist as if she needed to hold herself up rather than him.

"It was awful," Hannah broke in.  "It happened almost in front of the Hufflepuff box, so we heard some of it.  Malfoy said terrible things about Mrs. Weasley -- called her fat and ugly.  Harry was holding George back and Angelina, Katie and Alicia had Fred, but when Malfoy started insulting Lily Potter, too, Harry lost it.  He and George jumped on Malfoy and started hitting him."

"Can't believe he had the gall to speak ill of the dead," Justin muttered.

"Malfoy doesn't pay much attention to niceties," Cedric remarked, and while he wanted to blow his top about Harry and George's idiocy, he could remember all too well his own reaction to Malfoy's insults about _his_ mother two weeks before.  The best he could say was that he hadn't physically assaulted Malfoy.  "So what does a song have to do with it?"

"Oh, that."  Ernie rolled his eyes.  "Bloody bad rhyming, if you asked me."

"We didn't ask you," Justin retorted, but with a smile.  "It _was_ dumb, but Weasley was already nervous and it just set him off his mark, you know?"  Justin sang softly, "'_Weasley cannot save a thing.  He cannot block a single ring.  That's why Slytherins all sing: Weasley is our king._'  Or something like that.  There was more than one verse."

Ernie was right, it was rather bad and Cedric would've been inclined to laugh at the rotten poetry, but if already worked up, the quality of the lyrics wouldn't matter.  "Who won?" Cedric asked now, realizing he didn't know.

"We did," Hermione replied.  "Harry caught the snitch before Slytherin could rack up enough points."

"Sour grapes, then," Cedric replied and the others nodded.  Just as with Hermione earlier, they were all staring at him as if he had some answer and he felt a terrible sense of pressure.  "I can't do anything about it," he told them irritably.  "Harry and George attacked Malfoy.  That's --"

He broke off and stared out the doorway into the hall.  Everyone else turned.  Umbridge was standing there.  "This isn't an unauthorized _meeting_, is it?" she asked sweetly.

"It's a conversation," Cedric responded, resisting the urge to add, 'I didn't think those were illegal yet.'

Her beady little eyes swept over all of them, as if registering who was present, and her gaze lingered on Hermione still clinging to Cedric.  But she said nothing else and simply moved on down the hall.  No one spoke until she was out of sight.  "She gives me the _creeps_," Justin muttered.

"Madam Toad," Cedric said, which elicited snorts from the younger Hufflepuffs who hadn't heard him call her that before.

"Maybe you could talk to Dumbledore, mate," Peter suggested, but Cedric just shook his head.

"Dumbledore's hands are tied, same as mine.  He's got to pick his battles.  Angelina might kill me, but there are more important battles than her Quidditch team."

* * *

The castle remained in a kind of subdued uproar for the rest of Saturday, the students retreating to their common rooms and digging in as if for a siege once news of "Educational Decree Number 25" got around.  An Umbridge able to override other teachers' authority and hand out harsher punishments pleased no one (except some in Slytherin).  Even Cedric and Hermione went to be with their Houses that evening, and Hermione feared Cedric's Common Room, which had been a point of unity only the day before, lay deserted Saturday night.  If the return of Hagrid put joy back into her, it was short-lived when she realized Hagrid didn't really grasp the gravity of the current situation at Hogwarts.

Sunday morning found her in the library as soon as it was open, making up lesson plans for Hagrid.  Then she went after Cedric for support.  She instinctively knew she needed backup to make Hagrid take Umbridge seriously, and doubted Harry or Ron would supply it, even if they hadn't had their own studies to do.  She found Cedric in the courtyard with his mates.  Scott was bewitching snowballs to sneak up on younger students and drop on their heads, which got startled squeals from the students and laughter from the boys.  "Scott Summers!" Hermione said as she stomped through the snow to join them.  "Shame on you!"  Then she rounded on Cedric.  "And you!  You let him!"

"He's not hurting anybody, Granger!  It's simple fun."  All four of them were laughing at her now -- and she understood why a moment later when a snowball landed on her _own_ head.

With an indignant yell, she dropped her bag, grabbed a fistful of snow and flung it at Scott.  The snow fell apart and scattered, to her enormous frustration.  "You're supposed to pack it, Hermione!" Scott called, ducking around the side of a fountain.  "Try again!"

"I know that!" she bellowed back, furious, grabbing another handful and doing just that.  But instead of flinging it at Scott -- who could run faster -- she turned and shoved it down the front of Cedric's robe.

He gasped and jerked backwards as the cold wet slid down his front, almost tripping over his own crutches.  "You little minx!  What'd _I_ do?"  He was trying to get the snow out while balanced on one crutch.  She felt no pity.

"You didn't defend me."

"You didn't look like you needed it!  I was more inclined to defend Scott!"

Peter and Ed, she noticed, were about to suffocate from laughing.  She ignored them to face Cedric down, fists on hips.  She wasn't really angry, but she was a bit miffed.  "You can make it up to me by coming to Hagrid's with me.  We need to talk to him about Umbridge."

All laughter died away.  "Hagrid's back?" Ed asked, appearing . . . cautious might have been the best description.  Scott had come back over and all four exchanged a glance.

"Yes, Hagrid's back," she told them, looking between them with a sinking feeling.  None of them seemed thrilled.

"Guess we couldn't stay lucky all year," Peter muttered and Hermione's lips thinned.

"Hagrid's a good person --!" she started.

Cedric laid a hand on her shoulder.  "Yes, he is.  None of us dislike Hagrid, Granger.  The question is whether he's a good _teacher_."

And Hermione was at a loss how to respond because, deep down, she knew Cedric's question a fair one.  Grabbing her bag, she hauled out her notebook and flipped it open.  "I've been in the library all morning.  I was . . . well, making up lesson plans.  With Umbridge here, he has to watch what he tries to show us.  I'm not sure he'll really -- but he _has_ to take this seriously, you know?  That's why I need your help, Ced."  She gave him the expression he called her 'puppy-dog look,' which he rarely seemed able to turn down.

And sure enough, he leaned forward to see what she'd put together as Scott and Peter came around to look past her shoulder.  "Could be one of Grubbly-Plank's lessons," Scott muttered.  "If he'd teach that, he'd be fine.  He's an all right bloke, but when he starts off on hippogriffs and those damn, blast-ended skrewts, we want to run for the hills."

"Last year he brought an augurey into our NEWT class," Peter said.  "I thought I was going to faint when it started that cry it's got!"

"All that means is it's going to _rain_," Cedric said.  "And it did -- started pouring."

"Well, yeah, but still.  It's not what I've heard all my life.  It means _death_."

"That's probably why he brought it," Hermione told Peter.  "To dispel myths about perfectly safe creatures."

"I wouldn't call a blast-ended skrewt 'safe,' Hermione."  Cedric was looking at her.  "Not everything Hagrid brings to class is a good idea."

"Not you too!"

He shook his head.  "Hagrid's not scared of most creatures, and he may know how to handle them -- but that doesn't mean he has any business exposing students to some of them."

"Don't you find them interesting?"

"No!  I find a few of them a bit scary!"

She glared around at all four of them.  "So -- what?  You all want Umbridge to put Hagrid on probation like she's put Trelawney?"

They looked uncomfortable.  "Of course not," Peter said.  "But you have to admit Trelawney's not the best teacher either, and it's not like Umbridge put Sprout or Flitwick or McGongagall on probation."

"It's just a matter of time!" Hermione retorted.

Cedric was frowning.  "I'm inclined to agree.  But I don't think she means to get rid of everybody.  She can't afford to; somebody has to teach.  But yeah, she's after those closest to Dumbledore -- which means McGonagall eventually."

"She can't sack McGonagall!" Scott said.  "McGonagall actually knows what she's doing!  And she's Deputy Head!"

"That's the problem," Cedric replied.  "Umbridge wants Dumbledore's supporters cleared out -- that means Hagrid and McGonagall, and probably Flitwick if she thinks she can get him.  She can't possibly go after McGonagall right now, so she'll remove the teachers she has complaints about to make it look as if her judgments are legitimate.  Then you wait and see -- she'll find something to trump up about McGonagall."

"Then we can't let her get Hagrid on the way to McGonagall," Hermione said.  "Dumbledore needs Hagrid.  And . . . well, so does Harry."

Cedric looked up at that, and nodded.  "All right.  Fine -- I'll go with you to talk to Hagrid, but don't expect him to listen to me.  I'm not exactly his favorite student, Hermione."

"Why not?"

Peter and Ed exchanged a glance.  "Well, Cedric and Hagrid sort of got into an argument last year."

Hermione stared at Cedric, who wasn't looking at her, and tried to imagine him in an argument with a teacher.  "In class?"

"After class.  It was over the skrewts," Peter clarified.

"They're not _legal,_" Cedric defended.  "He bred them without permission.  There's a reason Scamander wrote that Ban on Experimental Breeding, Hermione.  It's not just dangerous, it's cruel to animals.  Wizards can make animals interbreed where they wouldn't normally be able to.  The result isn't always successful -- like the skrewts.  Hagrid acts like the ban means nothing."  His voice was growing hard.  "He thinks dragons can be made into pets, and he has a whole nest of acromantulae in the Forbidden Forest.  Those spiders breed exponentially, and they won't stay put much longer -- he's going to have to start killing them before they kill everything else in there."

Hermione squirmed because Cedric had a point.  "Hagrid means well --"

"I don't care if he means well!  He doesn't always _act_ well.  I was angry with him about the skrewts because he bred them from a manticore.  Not only are those phenomenally dangerous, but they're _intelligent_.  He doesn't have any business using an intelligent creature as a brood mare.  What would you say if he was breeding house-elves to fire crabs?"

Hermione glared.  That had been a low blow and he knew it.  "Fine, I'll go talk to Hagrid myself."

"I said I'd go with you."

"Given what I've just heard, I don't think that's a good idea," she retorted and stalked off.

"Granger --!"

She ignored him.  How did they always wind up in these ideological arguments?  She loved Cedric, really she did, but sometimes he made her want to strangle him.  It was even worse this time in that she had to _agree_ with his assessment, which conflicted with her sense of loyalty to Hagrid.

They wound up not talking to each other for the rest of the day.  "Quarreling with Ced again?" Harry asked at supper when both kept their backs firmly to each other at their different tables and didn't even trade glances.

Given Harry's affection for Hagrid, she didn't want to explain Cedric's disaffection, so she said only, "We had a disagreement."  She paused, then added, "I'll probably be ready to talk to him tomorrow.  But not tonight."

Indeed, the next morning before breakfast he was awaiting her in the Entrance Hall, his expression cautious.  She approached him and slipped an arm around his waist, burying her face in his chest.  He kissed the top of her head and, silent truce reached, they went in to breakfast.  They avoided discussion of Hagrid just like they'd taken to avoiding discussion of house-elves.  Hermione remembered what his mother had said about Cedric and conflict, and wondered when these disagreements swept under the rug were going to explode in their faces?


	19. The Eagle & the Serpent

The early November snow melted and turned to icy slush as the month drove towards its dark close.  The sun remained mostly dim behind clouds that dumped more sleet and rain, and Cedric's mood matched the weather.  McGonagall was still on him about becoming an Animagus, and Ed -- a bit panicked over the coming Ravenclaw-Hufflepuff match -- kept up a steady stream of Quidditch talk that put Cedric out of sorts and made him avoid his friend.  He also feared that Ed might ask him point blank if he planned to attend the next match since he hadn't attended the previous one.  Cedric didn't want to say, 'No,' so he stayed out of the Hufflepuff common room.

On the last day of the month, a Wednesday, he found a quiet corner of the library to spread his books.  It would be dinner soon but he was so buried under work that he needed every minute he could scrounge for lesson prep or the plethora of small things that always seemed to end on his desk or Violet's.  He wondered if she were feeling as overwhelmed as he, and predictably, the increased stress caused flare-ups in his condition; he'd missed two days of lessons in the past two weeks.  He couldn't afford to be laid out flat on his back again, drugged with Abdoleo.  He had three major essays due, a project, a demonstration to prepare for, Snape's individual potion test, and all McGonagall's reading.

The irony, he realized, was that worrying about what would happen if he suffered another attack was only making it more likely to occur.

He lost track of time and didn't realize dinner was over until he felt small hands on his shoulders, sliding around to hug him.  "Did you forget to eat?" Granger said against his neck.  "Or did you eat early?"

"Bloody hell."  He pulled out his pocket watch and glanced at it.  Too late now, but rather to his surprise, she laid a pair of pasties on a napkin in front of him.  "I had a feeling it was the former."

"Bless you, poppet."

Kissing his cheek, she raised up to rub his shoulders.  "Don't let Madam Pince see.  She'll kill me.  Why are you so tense, Ced?"

"If you saw my to-do list, you wouldn't be asking that."

Sighing, she let him go to pull out the seat beside his, unloading her own books.  That night, there wasn't any sneaking off into the stacks to snog.  He had far too much work and if usually more easy-going than Hermione, he took his responsibilities seriously, including lessons.  She kept pausing in her own studies to rub his back or run a hand through his hair, trying to relax him a bit.  Given how they could each over-worry matters, they might have been very bad for each other, feeding off each other's anxieties, but it seemed to work the other way.  If she were worried, he could calm her, and vice versa.

At nine she left to do her rounds and saw him only briefly afterwards.  "When are you going to bed?"

"When I'm done," he replied without looking up from his office desk, where he'd moved his work.

"Cedric, you need sleep, too, or you'll have another episode."

"Thank you, Healer Granger -- I can figure that out for myself."  Then he sighed and rubbed his eyes.  "Sorry."

"It's okay.  Take a bath before bed, all right?"

He nodded.  But in the end, it was after midnight before he returned to his rooms.  Once there, he sighed and collapsed on the sofa, dropping his head against the back of it, too tired to get up again, let alone take a bath.  He could bathe in the morning.

"Cedric."

He practically jumped off the cushions and his wand was out before he realized what he was doing.  Recognizing the voice but not seeing anyone, he said, "Hermione?  Where are you?"

The air above the chair in front of the sofa _moved_, then split, revealing Hermione beneath an . . . was that an invisibility cloak?  "Where did you _get_ that?  How long have you had it?"

"It's Harry's, actually -- belonged to his dad.  He let me borrow it."

"What are you doing in here?  Do you have any idea how much trouble we'd both be in --"

"I know," she said.  "But I was worried about you.  I've never seen you like this."

"I get like this every term end."

Folding the cloak, she laid it on the chair and came over to sit beside him on the sofa, one hand on his knee but not otherwise touching him.  "Are you going to take a bath?  I came to make sure you did."

But he shook his head.  "If I get in there now, I might fall asleep and drown."  That made her laugh.  "I'm serious, Granger.  I'm just too tired."

"It's more than just lessons that's bothering you, isn't it?"  He didn't reply, and she bent her head to peer up into his face.  "Isn't it?  You can talk to me, you know."

"It's not that easy."

"It's the game coming up; I know Ed's been after you.  That on top of your extra lessons plus the DA and your duties.  You've got too much on your plate.  Dumbledore shouldn't have done this to you."

"Dumbledore didn't do anything.  I did this to me -- too many irons in the fire."  Abruptly, he bent over, elbows on knees, face in hands.  "I am _so stressed_."

"I know.  Do you have swimming trunks?"

"What?"  Raising his face, he stared at her in confusion.

"Swimming trunks.  Do you have any?"

"Not with me.  Why would I have swimming trunks?"

She sighed.  "Well, I guess shorts'll do.  You do have shorts?"

He blinked at her.  "They're in my wardrobe.  Bottom drawer on the left.  What are you on about?"

But she rose and went into his bedroom, coming back a minute later with his track shorts, and Esiban riding in her arms.  He greeted the raccoon and eyed her.  "Why am I putting on shorts?"

"Because we're going swimming.  I'll make sure you don't drown, right?"

He laughed at her.  "And I suppose _you_ dragged your swimsuit with you to Scotland in winter?"

She opened the robe she was wearing to reveal skimpy shorts with pink cats on them and a strappy rose top -- probably summer pyjamas, Cedric decided.  "It covers more than a bikini, I suppose."  She was blushing.  "And it's not as if I'll need to wear them to sleep in for a while.  Besides," her blush deepened, "I've sort of been wanting to see you swim."

Grinning, he felt suddenly better despite the fact getting caught in the prefects' bath with his girlfriend after midnight -- clothes or no clothes -- could get them both expelled.  Back on his feet, he headed for the bedroom.  "Give me a few minutes to change."

When he was ready, he had her bring her things into his bedroom, stuffing them under his sheets.  "I don't think Filch would come barging into my room, but better safe than sorry.  And what if your roommates notice you're gone?"

"They're asleep and I put clothes in my bed to make it look like a person, then pulled the curtains to.  No one will know I'm not there unless they try to wake me up."

They entered the bath via his toilet doorway and while the room wouldn't permit someone to enter while another was in there, nothing said two people couldn't slip in at once -- or two people and a pet, as it were.  Esiban came along.  She turned on the taps while he cast Silencing Spells in case Filch was passing on his nightly perambulations.

Then they played in the bath, splashing or chasing each other while Esiban dashed back and forth along the marble pool edges.  The hot water relaxed Cedric's muscles and Hermione's presence cheered him considerably, even if this meant he'd get even less sleep than he might have otherwise.  He'd never expected to have her here with him, for her to see him free again of crutches and braces and chair.  In the bath, he could stand up and hold her in his arms like a normal man.  But if his track shorts were almost as good as swim trunks, her flimsy cotton outfit wasn't.  It clung to her body a little too well, and the way her nipples poked through wet fabric made him hard in his shorts.  He wanted to be a gentleman, he did, but there was a point past which it became difficult to think.  And once, when he grabbed her from behind as she was trying to escape him in play, his hand accidentally came down on her breast -- which stopped the laughter in both their throats.  He yanked his hand free as if burned and both her arms came up to cover herself protectively.  "Sorry," he muttered.  "That wasn't on purpose."

"I know."  She was staring at his chest as hard as he was trying not to stare at hers and he couldn't erase the fleeting sensation of soft, yielding flesh under his hand.

"We should get out," he said.

"Probably."

They let the water drain while she fetched them towels and he put back on his braces.  Then he said, "Go on back into my rooms and get changed.  You did bring other clothes -- ?"

"Yes, of course.  Give me a few minutes."

"All right."

He ditched his wet shorts and wrapped a dry towel around his waist as he waited politely, then opened his door to call, "You decent?"

"Yes."  She hurried into the toilet to hold the door for him and Esiban, her eyes resolutely not dropping down to the towel, although she did pick up his wet clothes from the bath and carry them in for him.

Then she left him to put on his pyjama bottoms as she went to gather her cloak and robe from his bed.  When he emerged from the toilet a minute later, he found her holding out her wet clothes in front of her, clearly perplexed as to how to carry them without getting her dry flannel pyjamas wet.  "Banish them back to Gryffindor Tower," he suggested.

Her nose wrinkled.  "I'm not very good with that spell yet.  They could end up in the Black Lake."  It made him laugh.  "I should have thought to bring a plastic bag."

Eyebrow lifting, he grabbed his wand.  "You mean like the Muggles use for shopping?"  She nodded.  "One plastic bag coming up."  And he Conjured it for her.

Mouth open, she took it.  "You are . . . quite good at that sort of thing.  Transfigurations really is your best subject, isn't it?"

That only reminded him of the homework he'd more or less avoided.  Flopping back on his bed, he said, "Right now, I think McGonagall is regretting taking me on for private study."

Shoving the clothes in the bag, she sat down next to him and laid her hand on his bare chest just below his ribcage, rubbing in little circles over the skin.  He grabbed the hand because she had no idea what touching him there did, and lying as he was in loose pyjama bottoms, there was no hiding it.  "That tickles," he lied.

"Sorry.  Just like touching you.  Why would McGonagall regret taking you on?"

"I'm not getting very far on the Animagus transformation.  She insists I can do it but, well, I'm starting to wonder.  Maybe she's wrong.  Not everyone can be an Animagus."

"I still think you'd make a splendid dolphin."  Grinning, she leaned across his chest to look down into his face, wet hair falling forward to tickle his cheeks and shoulders.  Her eyes roved over his features, as if memorizing him for a painting, and he felt oddly exposed -- and not because he was shirtless.

Pushing her away, he sat up to run a hand through his hair.  "Hermione, you should go."

She sat up as well, expression embarrassed.  "You only use Hermione when you're upset with me."

"No."  He shook his head.  "Not only when I'm upset -- when I'm serious."  He looked over at her.  "Thank you for coming tonight -- really -- but we shouldn't do this again, pleasant as it was.  We'd both be expelled if Umbridge caught us, and I'd never forgive myself for getting you into such trouble."

She frowned down at her hands.  "It wasn't you who showed up unexpectedly in my room, Cedric Diggory.  I can take responsibility for my own actions.  And it's not as if I've never done something against the rules before.  I needed to be certain you got in that bath tonight, and even laughed a bit.  You've been on edge for two weeks."  A smile played at the corners of her mouth.  "Besides, I did want to see you swim."  She looked up at him again.  "I didn't expect we'd make a habit of it."

"Okay."  Bending swiftly, he kissed her mouth, firm but brief.  He didn't trust himself to do more.  "Off to bed, poppet."

Gathering the invisibility cloak, she put it on and he took her to the door, stepping out into the hallway as if he'd heard something, lighted wand in hand with the crutches.  "Who's there?"  Of course there was no one, but it allowed her to sneak out behind him without a door opening and closing on nothing.  He felt her hand beneath the cloak brush his back, and then she was gone.

That night, he fantasized about erect nipples under wet, rose cotton and the feel of her breast curving soft into his palm, and came hard.

* * *

Hermione thought about his hand on her breast too.  In retrospect, she wished she'd reacted other than with a startled, prudish shock, but jerking her arms up to cover her chest had been instinctive.  For just an instant, she'd feared he'd done it on purpose, but one look at his mortified face had told her otherwise.

And with it being _truly_ accidental . . . well, curiosity had always been both her greatest virtue and fault.  At the time, she'd been so surprised she'd registered nothing but that his hand was _there_.  Now she found herself remembering how it had felt, the warmth of his palm on the heavy underside of her breast.  She thought, too, of his smooth skin beneath her hands in the hot water, and of being held against his bare chest while he'd kissed her.  The living Cedric was better than any painting, which was just oil and canvas.  She preferred flesh and blood and young muscles that rippled across his back, the sweet curve of his shoulders, the bird-wing arch of his clavicles.  He had light brown hair across the top of his chest and more leading from his shallow belly-button down in a line beneath the edge of his shorts.  He had moles too, but no freckles, and she'd let her fingers trace constellations between the dark dots on his back.  "What are you doing, Granger?" he'd asked, laughing and twisting to catch her in his arms.  She wasn't used to him being able to hold her that way, squeezed so close she almost couldn't breathe.  She'd wrapped her legs around his waist under the water, ankles crossed at the small of his spine, and kissed him fervently.  Her shirt had floated, and his hands had been on the skin of her back beneath, stroking.  "Want you," he'd muttered, then let out a breathy laugh.  "Sorry.  Bit out of line there."

She'd shaken her head against his shoulder.  He wasn't out of line.  She wanted him back, just didn't feel ready to follow through yet -- too bashful and ashamed, programmed by sixteen years of cultural conditioning.  Experienced boys were lucky; experienced girls were cheap and sluttish.  "Why buy the cow when you can get the milk for free?"  Only girls suffered ruined reputations from sex, and even her mother had warned her last year when Hermione had told her about Viktor's invitation to the Yule Ball:  _Boys expect you to put on the brakes.  They don't have any brakes.  You have to stay in control._

She didn't want to stay in control with Cedric -- not when she saw his pearl-pale skin and glorious smile and shivered under his hands.  But she didn't know how to _let go.  _Even his accidental touch on her breast had frozen her like a deer in headlights . . . yet the very accidental nature of it led her to turn it over in her mind, think about it, get used to the idea without feeling pressured.

The next day, she missed him at breakfast but they met in the courtyard between lessons.  The day was sunny, the first break in the weather in more than a week, and he was smiling to match, waiting for her where he always did.  They stared stupidly at each other for a full minute and she thought she might melt into a little puddle at his feet.  It was unfair how quickly he could reduce her to senselessness, and he leaned in to brush his lips over hers, very lightly.  "Get enough sleep?" he asked, his grin wicked.

"No," she told him honestly.  "But I don't regret it.  How are you feeling today?"

"Much, much better.  Thanks to you."  He kissed her softly again, which was quite distracting.

Behind them they heard mock choking, and turned, half expecting Scott.  It was Fred and George instead.  "The two of you --" George began.

"-- would give anybody a diabetic coronary," Fred finished, and they moved on, not waiting for a reply.

"Prats," Hermione muttered.

Cedric was laughing, but before he could say anything, hooting from overhead interrupted.  They looked up.  A small owl was winging frantically for the owlry -- chased by a large golden eagle.  "Oh, no!" one of the girls nearby gasped.

"It'll be all right," Cedric said, and sure enough, the eagle banked sharply and flew above them, back towards the Scottish hills, its cry a high-pitched yelp.  Hermione had been holding her breath, both in fear for the owl, and in delight at seeing an eagle.  She knew some golden eagles nested in the hills nearby, but in her now five years at Hogwarts, she'd never been fortunate enough to see one.  "The eagles sometimes come close to the castle in winter even though they don't like the forest," Cedric was saying.  "They're hungry.  Dumbledore put a charm on the owlry to protect the owls."

"It was huge," Hermione muttered, watching it disappear in the distance.

"She was."  Cedric looked . . . enraptured.

"How do you know it's a 'she'?"

"Because she _was_ big; males are smaller."

"Since when are you the expert on eagles?  Have you seen them here before?  I've never seen them.  I knew they were up there, but I've never seen one."

He smiled and looked down at her.  "I see them every year."

"You're lucky."

His eyes clouded as the bell rang.  "Meet me in the library at lunch -- our spot.  Bring food.  I'll bring something else."

They parted and, curious, Hermione spent all of Runes wondering what he was bringing and hurried to the Great Hall to snitch whatever would fit in her pockets, sparing Ron and Harry a few words as she edged out . . . only to have Ed, Peter and Scott block her escape.  "Where's Ced?" Ed demanded.

"Ah . . . studying, I think."

Ed frowned.  "He's avoiding me."

"Well, he knows what you want, mate," Peter told him.  "Stop pestering him about the match Saturday and he might stop avoiding you."

"_He's_ got to stop avoiding the pitch -- "

Hermione slipped past them while they quarreled, dashing off before they could call her back.  She made it to the library without further interruption, finding Cedric beneath the Butterfly Woman as promised.  He had a wrapped bundle of some kind with him.  She settled down across from him and he laid it between them, unwrapping it.  This was nothing from the Wizarding World she knew.  Inside lay a strange collection of things:  a braided rope of what looked like reeds or grass, several small packets of calico cloth smelling of tobacco, a small turtle shell on a stick that rattled when it shifted, an abalone shell the size of her hand, a bit of red stone carved to look like a deer or elk, and a large feather of dark brown edged with gold and stark white, its quill beaded in white, yellow, red and black and fixed with leather ties.

"A golden eagle feather," Cedric said, picking it up reverently and staring down at it.  "No one else knows I have it -- well, no one alive, not even my parents.  I could get fined for it."

"Why?"

"It's illegal in the U.S. and Canada for a non-Indian to have a real eagle feather.  I don't know that I'd get in trouble here; I doubt the Muggles have laws about it, but they might ask how I got it -- and that could get other people in trouble."

She nodded.  "And all this -- ?"  She peered again at the bundle.

"It was made for me by Leonard, things to honor the Manitou, the spirits.  It's called a medicine bundle.  This" -- he touched it -- "is _power_, Granger.  Not ours -- well, not British -- but power all the same.  This most of all."  He smoothed the feather in his long fingers.  "Every feather has a story.  When it's given to you, you have to hear the story of how it came to you, and remember, for when you pass it on.  To be given one -- it's a great honoring.  Immense.  That I have this . . . the only reason is that Leonard said it was meant for me.  I'd done nothing to distinguish myself."

Hermione would have begged to differ, but didn't interrupt.

"This feather," he said, his voice changing slightly, adopting a formal tone like a storyteller, "This feather came to me from Leonard Whitecalf, and came to Leonard Whitecalf from the eagle himself, forty years ago, or thereabouts.  Leonard was helping take care of wounded eagles.  For Indians, eagles represent the Creator -- they're sacred -- and the Romans carried their image before the legions into battle.  For Charlemagne, it was his royal symbol.  Here in Britain, it means strength.  The golden eagle is a hunter, and the one who gave this feather was wounded in a hunt.  The feather came to Leonard the day the eagle was released.  One way of looking at it is that the eagle was just molting, but that's not how Indians see things.  The eagle gave the feather in thanks, and Leonard knew he'd recognize who it was meant for when he met him.  He just didn't expect him to be a twelve-year-old British kid.  Pretty irregular.

"When I got this, I didn't deserve it -- I'd done nothing brave -- and I've never worn it for that reason.  Leonard couldn't say why it was meant for me, but told me _I'd_ know one day."  He frowned.  "I've wondered -- did I get the feather because the Goblet of Fire would choose me?  Or was I chosen because I hold an eagle feather?"

"Maybe neither," Hermione said softly and he looked up.  "Maybe you got the feather because you saved someone's life -- that's something truly brave."

It was clear from his face that the notion startled him.  "I spent the whole bloody Tournament trying to live up to having this feather."  He turned it over in his hands, then abruptly held it out to her.  "Bind it in my hair."

"What?"

"Tie it into my hair, Granger.  I shouldn't do it myself.  It should be done by someone close to me."  He turned his head so she could reach the side, and leaning over, she did as he asked, separating a lock of honey-brown to tie the leather tightly.  Sitting back then, feather swaying beside his face, he rewrapped the bundle and slipped it into his book bag, pushing to his feet and glancing around, but they were alone still.  "I'll see you later."

She blinked after him.  He'd seemed . . . very odd, caught up in the grip of something bigger than he was.  He hadn't even kissed her goodbye.

* * *

Cedric had never grasped the whole native concept of walking between worlds until that morning in the courtyard.  Seeing the eagle, something had grabbed a hold of him, yanking him out of himself, and talking to Hermione had only pushed him the rest of the way over.  He didn't feel as if he were quite in the same castle with everybody else.  He passed people in the halls without almost seeing them as he made his way up to McGonagall's office after leaving his bundle in his room.  He still wore the feather.

McGonagall wasn't there.  No doubt she had a class she'd shown up for -- unlike him.  Turning away, he went to the only other person who might understand.

Dumbledore.

He had the password because he was Head Boy.  "Chocolate Frogs."  The stone griffin leapt aside to let the staircase carry him upwards and deposit him on the landing.  Knocking on the door, he waited.  It opened.  "I'm ready," Cedric said.

Dumbledore said nothing.  Maybe he recognized that Cedric was Walking, or maybe he didn't need to ask because he was an Legilimens.  Whatever the reason, he stepped aside and let Cedric thump into his office.  "I know you're not an Animagus," Cedric said.  "But you taught Transfigurations.  I'm ready to transform."

Inside the round office with its portraits, magical objects and the red-plumed phoenix -- who eyed him oddly -- Cedric turned to face the Headmaster.  But Dumbledore had crossed to a window, unlatching it to push it wide.  "Go," he said.  "I don't need to tell you how.  You've known all along."

Yes.  He knew.  There was a moment of shift, of dizziness, of world spinning, of seeing-not-seeing, of collapsing . . .

-- of flight.

Wings beat strongly in the room, stirring cloth and parchment, then tucked close as he burst from the building through Dumbledore's open window, out into an aquamarine sky.  There, wings spread, he soared, emitting a high-pitched yelp of joy.  He was free.

* * *

After Herbology, Hermione, Harry and Ron were headed back to the castle for supper.  An almost familiar high-pitched yelp made Hermione glance up.  "It's that eagle again," she said.  Harry and Ron looked up, too.  "It's after the owls.  Cedric said it's hungry."

"After owls?" Harry asked.

"Didn't you see it this morning?  It was chasing some poor little owl, but Cedric told me there's a charm on the owlry so the eagles can't get them."

"I didn't know there _were_ eagles around here," Harry said.

"I've never seen them, but I read about it.  The Scottish highlands are among the few places in Britain where they still live free."

"Of course you read about it," Ron retorted.  "You know, that eagle doesn't look headed for the owlry.  It's kind of . . . circling."

And it was.  Hermione hadn't really been paying attention, running on what Cedric had told her before.  Now she looked up again, hand shading her eyes.

Abruptly the eagle dove from several hundred feet -- straight at her.  Screaming in terror, Hermione threw herself to the ground while Harry and Ron dashed in different directions.  But she felt no tear of talons just a brush of wind from the wings.  Cautiously, she peaked out through her fingers.  The eagle was ascending again, but not so high, and it came around once more, yelping softly as it went over.

What on earth had she done to anger an eagle?  Yet its legs were tucked against its body, not extended as if to seize, and it spun all around her in tight circles, its wild, low swooping drawing attention.  Neville had stopped in his trek back to the castle, along with Seamus and Dean, Parvati and Lavender, Ernie, Hannah, Susan and Justin.  All stood gaping.  Harry had his wand out in case he needed to defend her from the bird.  But it wasn't attempting to attack her and -- gingerly -- Hermione got to her feet.

It was . . . _playing_.  It was playing.  Awesome power contained, banked in delight.

And she understood -- recognized.

"Cedric?" she asked, then more loudly, "Cedric?"  She held out her arms, not really sure how to offer a roost to an eagle, but trying.  This close, he looked huge, wings spanning more than her standing height.

He circled a few more times, then abruptly hit her hard in the chest, his wings and the dangerous talons tucked.  She scrabbled to hold onto him.  He was _heavy_ for a bird, and she didn't think this was how one was supposed to go about it, but she had him in both arms braced against her chest, only belatedly realizing he couldn't roost because he couldn't _stand_.  Even so and despite the awkwardness of holding a very large raptor, she was laughing.  "Cedric!"

The bird shifted, blurred, and _grew_ . . . She let go abruptly and he was standing in front of her, braced on his crutches, the eagle feather still in his hair, his face bright with an indescribable joy.

"Merlin's beard," Susan Bones muttered from a few yards away.  "You're an _Animagus_."

"I am now," Cedric replied.  "I can _fly_ again."

All Hufflepuff House (and half of Hogwarts) had heard about Cedric's transformation by the end of Thursday, and quite a few came out onto the lawn between classes on Friday afternoon to watch McGonagall and Dumbledore work with him.  The first time he'd transfigured he'd been in the grip of instinct, but like anything, the Animagus Transformation took practice.  To shift from standing on crutches to flying -- and back again -- was no easy task and Cedric wound up on the ground more than once, either as an eagle or a boy.  He could have done without an audience for that.  But by sunset, he'd at least mastered a smooth transition _to_ eagle form, although his arms were so weak from the strain of flapping -- not an activity he was used to -- he could barely lift them to feed himself.  It netted him a muscle massage from Hermione, once he'd stretched out on a sofa in the Common Room.  Ernie, Scott and Peter ambled over to tease them, Scott pretending to have sore feet from walking around all day, which just earned him a kick in the shins.  "Prickly little bird!" Scott accused her.

As for Ed, he spent most of Friday night in the library, of all places, seeking some loophole in Quidditch rules that would allow Cedric back on the House Quidditch Team.  Cedric went up there after evening report was done in an attempt to dislodge his friend.  Peter and Scott tagged along.  Sitting down across from Ed, Cedric reached over to close whatever book Ed was reading.  "Forget it," he said.  "It's against the rules -- no wiggle room."

"But Summerby's lousy compared to you . . . "

"Summerby is good enough, and your Seeker.  You can't put an _eagle_ on your team, Ed.  It's not bloody fair.  No flying Animagus has _ever_ been allowed on a team in animal form.  Period."

Ed buried his head in his arms.  "We're going to lose . . . " he moaned. 

"Bank on your strengths.  Two years ago, I put together the best set of Chasers Hufflepuff has seen in two decades."  He grinned at his friend -- who was one of those three magical Chasers.  "Got my inspiration from the Irish, I guess.  _Use_ that.  So Summerby isn't a great Seeker; he'll learn.  Rack up points, Ed.  Rack them up fast and high.  You could still win even if Cho gets the Snitch, and she probably will.  She's got a bit of a score to settle, I think.  Expect her at the top of her form."

Ed looked up at him.  "Will you come?  To watch?"

Cedric nodded.  "Absolutely."  He no longer felt the gut-shrinking aversion.  And indeed, the next morning he was up early, down in the Great Hall with the team, standing by Ed as he tried to give a pep talk and encourage everybody to eat breakfast (even if he wasn't eating himself).  "Come down to the changing rooms with us," Ed told Cedric.

"I'm not --"

"You're ours, Ced.  Maybe not on the team formally, but we still see you as ours."

So he went with them, pausing behind Hermione on the way out to wrap his own scarf around her neck atop the Gryffindor colors she already sported.  "Wear it for me?"

She smiled up at him and nodded as Harry and Ron rose to shake Ed's hand.  "Good luck," they told him, but Cedric had seen Harry throw a look over his shoulder to where Cho, dressed in Ravenclaw blue, was eating.

The tension in the changing room was ridiculous; Ravenclaw was to Hufflepuff what Slytherin was to Gryffindor, and any amelioration that might have come once from the union of the teams' two Seekers last year was not only negated now but the rivalry was made worse by Cho and Cedric's breakup.  Ravenclaw was bound and determined to have badger hide today, and Hufflepuff hadn't been a confident team since they'd lost Cedric --

-- until Thursday, when their former captain had turned himself into a golden eagle . . . Ravenclaw's mascot.

There were, Cedric supposed, several ways of interpreting that, but the team had decided it meant they'd _own_ Ravenclaw on the pitch today.  Team and House spirit were high, and as the underdogs, Hufflepuff had school sympathy.  Most of Gryffindor was cheering for yellow-and-black, or that's what it had looked like to Cedric at breakfast.  Slytherin was, as always, insulated and haughty and more inclined to side with Ravenclaw, but the internal civil war had begun to show the cracks on the surface, and if Draco Malfoy cheered for Ravenclaw, then Blaise Zabini and his supporters would not.  No self-respecting Slytherin would cheer for Hufflepuff outright, but the non-support of Zabini's crowd left less blue in the stands than yellow.

"Fly out with us?" Ed asked Cedric now as Hooch blew her five minute warning.

"It's not --"

"You're using 'not' a lot today," Ed interrupted.  "You can't fly as Seeker -- all right, I fucking got that.  I'm not asking you to cheat for us, Ced -- just . . . fly out with us.  You can see the game better from the sky anyway."

"You're asking me to play reverse mascot," Cedric said.

Ed grinned.  "Maybe.  I want everybody to see we've got the eagle today, yeah?"

Cedric didn't reply, debating the wisdom of emerging with the team even if he immediately separated, and doing it without Hooch's approval.  "It could earn us a penalty."

"I'll take my chances," Ed answered.  He was, Cedric thought, sounding more and more like the Captain, not Cedric's fill-in, and that decided Cedric.

"All right.  But I'm going straight up after.  I don't want Hooch even to wonder if I'm helping you.  You can tell her I said that.  I'll stay a couple hundred feet above the top of the stands."

"Deal," Ed said, grinning.

Hooch's whistle went off again and the team lined up near the doors.  In the distance, Cedric could hear Lee Jordan in his role as announcer, introducing the Hufflepuff team as the doors opened.  All seven of them shot out into the sky above the pitch.  Cedric hesitated, then Transfigured and shot out after them, wings beating, angling up to circle the entire field once above the team doing the same, then banked and dipped, weaving around Ed.  To his credit, Ed didn't flinch -- seemed to enjoy playing tag with an eagle.  The Hufflepuff stands were roaring as Cedric turned and rose skyward as he'd promised.

* * *

Far below, Hermione shaded her eyes to watch Cedric dark against gray clouds, sailing above the pitch and trying not to draw more attention to himself.

He'd drawn enough.  When -- all unexpected -- he'd come streaking out of the changing rooms behind his team, Hermione had thought the whole of Hufflepuff would go spare, shrieking and clapping and jumping up and down like lunatics.  He must have decided he'd served his purpose and was now circling above, out of the way of the team.

On the field, Hooch was shaking a finger at Ed Carpenter who just grinned back and shrugged, pointed up and said something.  With a nod, Hooch replied, which earned an obviously angry protest from Davies.  "What's going on, do you think?" Hermione asked Harry, who sat between her and Ron.

"I think Carpenter's trying to convince Hooch that Ced's not going to interfere.  Davies doesn't believe him.  Or actually, he probably does believe him -- Ced's known for not cheating -- but he wants Hooch to penalize Hufflepuff anyway."

"Ah."  Hermione didn't ask how Harry could guess all that, but Hooch was blowing her whistle and tossing the Quaffle.  The game had begun.  Hermione watched with the half-hearted interest of someone who cared about the players, not the game, her attention divided between the field and the circling eagle above.  Cedric's flight was a steady glide, riding updrafts.  She hoped he didn't strain himself again.  Beating those huge wings took a lot of effort.

Hufflepuff racked up points quickly.  "Is the Ravenclaw Keeper that bad?" she asked Harry in a whisper so Ron wouldn't overhear.

Harry shook his head.  "No, the Hufflepuff Chasers are that bloody _good_.  Better than ours."  He frowned.  "I hope Angelina's watching.  We have to play them come spring."  Hermione didn't miss that Harry still spoke of the team as if he were on it.  He also seemed unsure who to root for.  Cedric was his friend, but Cho was flying for Ravenclaw.

Hufflepuff notched up 100 points while Ravenclaw stood at only 20.  It appeared to be a massacre.  Then a collective gasp went up from the stands around her and Harry was practically bouncing in his seat.  "Cho's seen the Snitch!"

Indeed, the small figure of Cho Chang in blue robes was streaking across the field like a girl on a mission.  Hufflepuff's Summerby had noticed too, and took off after her, but lagged yards behind.  Ed spotted Chang, and motioned with his hand, his Chasers redoubling their efforts to earn them 30 more points inside ten minutes.  Cho still hadn't snagged the Snitch.  "Come on!" Harry was muttering from beside Hermione.  "Come on, Cho!"  If she caught the Snitch now, even Hufflepuff's ridiculous lead in points wouldn't save them from defeat.

Hermione glanced up.  Cedric was still circling.  If he could see the Snitch from there -- and his eagle eyes probably could -- he was giving no sign of it.

Apparently, the Snitch had outwitted Cho, disappearing again as her headlong drive suddenly halted and she looked around.  Summerby appeared just as confounded, and Hufflepuff scored another ten points.  Ravenclaw couldn't seem to keep hold of the Quaffle long enough to get near the Hufflepuff hoops, and the Hufflepuff Keeper looked bored compared to the Ravenclaw Keeper, who was harassed and ready to have a fit.

Hufflepuff continued to score, yet every time they were within sight of being 160 up -- what they'd need to win without the Snitch -- Ravenclaw managed to get that one extra goal.  Their Keeper had finally got the hang of blocking Ed, Zacharias Smith, and the other Chaser, Alex Aubry (who was an Alexan_dra_, one of Hufflepuff's only two female players), although he still let in more shots than he kept out.

Then it happened.  The Snitch reappeared high in the air and Cho darted after it even as the Ravenclaw Chasers scored yet another goal to put Hufflepuff under again.  Cho went after the Snitch with the same single-minded determination Ed was putting into keeping the Quaffle in Hufflepuff hands.  He made a run at the goal rings but the Ravenclaw Keeper knocked the Quaffle aside, making a victory fist.  Ed shot him the two-fingered salute as he sailed past -- receiving an angry blast from Hooch's whistle even as Lee Jordan (laughing into the megaphone) said, "This is turning into a real battle, it is.  Hufflepuff 's still just _ten points_ from winning with or without the Snitch, and Chang is on its tail.  She has to catch it before Carpenter, Aubrey and Smith can make another drive or two since -- as we've all seen -- those lads don't often miss!"

The Golden Snitch had apparently decided (if magical items could be said to 'decide' anything) that escape lay in altitude.  If a Snitch never strayed far from a pitch, they did sometimes hide under stands or sail high above the field.  It was just such a maneuver on the Snitch's part that had brought Harry into contact with the dementors two years ago.

Now the Snitch was rising as if headed for _Cedric_.  He flapped off towards the west to put a fair distance between himself and it -- but the Snitch followed.  "What the bleedin' hell . . . ?" Ron said on Harry's other side, raising his omnioculars.  Cho Chang was flying straight for the Snitch and Cedric, Summerby on her heels.  It made for quite a bizarre little chase.  Cedric was clearly just trying to get out of the way, but it seemed as if every time he moved, the Snitch followed him --

"Harry, is the Snitch bewitched?"  It seemed that several other students were wondering the same thing, muttering all around them.

Harry turned to stare at her.  "Why would anybody bewitch the Snitch to follow Ced?"

But as soon as he asked, they both had an inkling of the answer, and Hermione snatched Ron's omnioculars as Harry raised his own to peer across into the stands on the other side where several teachers were sitting, including Umbridge.  She stared up along with everybody else -- smiling, and fingering her short, fat wand.

On the field below, almost forgotten, the Hufflepuff Chasers had scored the necessary ten points to win, had, in fact, scored twenty because the Ravenclaw Keeper was distracted.  Above, Cho had grown furious at the Snitch's behavior and had quit flying to avoid Cedric.  She charged right at the Snitch, and because Cedric was probably as confused as anybody else, he banked only slightly, again just trying to stay out of the players' way.  Cho clipped one of his wings at breakneck speed as she sailed past, fingers outstretched, itching for the little golden ball . . . closing over it.

She had it.  But Lee Jordan wasn't crowing the game's end into the megaphone.  Instead, the crowd all gaped up in horror.  The eagle no longer glided effortlessly.  One wing was beating in desperation while the other hung uselessly and he spiraled downward.  Hermione wasn't even aware of moving but she was up and shoving her way through the crowd to get down from the Gryffindor Box 5 -- good seats normally, but far too high when Cedric was falling.

The entire incident had taken perhaps three minutes at most, and Cedric wasn't the first student to fall from the sky in a Quidditch match, even to fall from such a height.  He was doing his best to break his own downward plunge.  On his feet, wand out, Dumbledore halted Cedric's spiral as if the air itself around him had grown cushy, and he settled onto the grass.  Hooch was blowing her whistle as Hufflepuff players zipped over to their former Captain.  Ravenclaw had surrounded Cho with the Snitch still in her fist.  "She hit him on purpose!" Hermione hissed as she pattered down steps, only dimly aware of Harry and Ron behind her.  "She broke his wing!  Arm!  Whatever!"

"I don't think she was trying to break his wing," Harry defended, chasing breathlessly after Hermione.

Lee Jordan had recovered too, and was announcing, "And Hufflepuff wins!  The Snitch goes to Chang, but Hufflepuff wins by twenty points!"

Hufflepuff was cheering -- but weakly.  They were more concerned with their own lying on the field, back in his human form now, surrounded by the team and Hooch.  Hermione wasn't sure she was allowed out there -- she'd been turned back two years ago when it had been Harry -- but she'd like to see someone stop her.  No one tried, although Harry and Ron didn't attempt to follow as she thrust Ron's omnioculars into Harry's hand and charged across the green towards Cedric, sitting up now, his right arm held against his body, his jaw clenched.  Hooch was saying, "I'm tempted to tell you it's your own bloody fault for putting yourself above the field, Diggory."

"I wasn't exactly in the normal playing arena!"

Hooch was examining Cedric's arm as Hermione slipped past Zacharias Smith to settle down at his side.  He shot her a tight smile.  Hooch didn't.  Her yellow cat eyes grew even more annoyed.  "_You_ are not a player, Granger."

"Technically, neither's Cedric."

Dumbledore and Sprout had hurried up as well, Sprout holding onto her hat to keep it from spinning off.  "What on earth was the matter with that Snitch?" she asked Hooch.  "I'd swear it was following Cedric!"

"I was rather wondering the same thing," said another voice.  They all looked around to find Umbridge there, too.  "I find it very . . . _curious_ . . . that the Snitch decided to home in on Mr. Diggory so the little Ravenclaw Seeker was forced to slow down in order to avoid hitting him -- allowing Hufflepuff time to score those extra goals and win."

"What?" and "But --" and "That's not what happened!" came from Hufflepuff throats.

Cedric's mouth just hung open.  Hermione gripped his arm, glaring at Umbridge who she still suspected lay behind it all.  Umbridge went on, "I've been told you excel at Charms, Mr. Diggory -- as you aptly demonstrated in class the day I evaluated Professor Flitwick.  A subtly cast Accio Charm combined with a Confundus just before the Snitch reached you, to keep it unclear what you were up to -- ?  For a young wizard of your obvious talent, not a terribly difficult trick to pull off . . . "

"Ced doesn't cheat!" Ed bellowed.  Cedric seemed too stunned to respond at all.

"Dolores," Dumbledore broke in, face smoothed for diplomatic intervention, "you know a new Animagus is rarely able to cast voiceless, wandless spells just a day or two after -- "

Speaking at once, both Sprout and Hooch interrupted him, unheeding in their indignation.  "Cedric wouldn't do such a thing!" Sprout said as Hooch declared, "Diggory has a reputation for honesty in Quidditch, Professor Umbridge.  I might believe what you're suggesting of virtually any player on any team _before_ I'd believe it of Diggory!  Two years ago --"

"People change," Umbridge interrupted smoothly, returning her eyes to Cedric, whose face had gone from consternation to hard, cold, white-faced fury.  Hermione tightened her grip, willing him not to explode like Harry would have.  "People can change a great deal," Umbridge was saying, "when they've suffered such a . . . tragic loss.  The Mr. Diggory of two years ago isn't Mr. Diggory today."

"I still can't believe it!" Sprout insisted.

"'Can't' or _won't_?" Umbridge asked sweetly.  "How else would you explain what happened?"

"I . . . don't know how to explain it," Sprout replied, glancing first at Hooch, whose mouth was set in a stubborn line, then back at Cedric himself.

"I didn't bewitch the Snitch," Cedric told Sprout levelly, but not calmly.  Every muscle in him was tense with outrage and pain.  He still gripped his broken arm.  "But I agree -- it acted as if it were bewitched.  Maybe someone else did it?"  His eyebrows went up.  "Someone who'd benefit if I came off badly?"

Dumbledore smiled in approval.  Had Hermione not been looking right at him, she'd have missed it.  Hooch was nodding and Sprout gave a firm jerk of her chin, as if vindicated.  Umbridge appeared annoyed.  "I can't imagine who'd want to damage your reputation, Mr. Diggory."

"You can't?" he bit off, tone aggressive.  For just a breath, their eyes locked and Hermione was sure that like her, Cedric also suspected Umbridge.  "I fear I've made a few enemies as Head Boy."

"So who do you think did it, Mr. Diggory?"

"I don't know.  I'd say someone who doesn't care if Ravenclaw loses as long as my reputation's damaged.  Even if it can't be proven, doubt remains -- right?  For some, doubt's enough.  A person's guilty till proven innocent, yeah?"

Umbridge's smile was back.  "How very . . . Byzantine.  I prefer Occam's Razor.  The simple answer is often the right one."  Abruptly, she glanced from him to the stands.  People milled.  The game might be over but they were reluctant to depart, waiting to see what would happen next.  Equally curious, the Ravenclaw team remained on the other side of the field.

Pulling her wand, Umbridge set it to her throat and muttered, "_Sonorus_."  Her high voice boomed across the pitch.  "In light of the peculiar behavior of the Snitch and the . . . dubious nature of the Hufflepuff victory, in my capacity as Hogwart's High Inquisitor, I hereby reverse the decision.  The match goes to Ravenclaw!"

The Ravenclaw team and stands erupted in elated shrieking even as Hufflepuff erupted in yells of outrage.  "No!" Ed bellowed, spinning on Hooch.  "She can't do that!"  Hermione hadn't seen such ugly looks on Hufflepuff faces since Harry's name had come out of the Goblet last year.  Cedric himself had bowed his head and looked, for a moment, utterly defeated.  Hermione wrapped careful arms around his shoulders and glanced towards the Ravenclaw team again.  Cho wasn't celebrating.  She was staring across the dead winter grass at the circle around Cedric.

Umbridge turned back to the mutinous Hufflepuffs.  "Do you want me to disband your entire team for unsportsmanlike behavior?" she asked.

"You don't have the right to decide a Quidditch match!" Ed thundered.  "Your authority doesn't extend to refereeing!"

"Shut up, Ed," Cedric whispered in a voice only Hermione could hear even as Dumbledore said, "Calm yourself, Mr. Carpenter.  I believe this can be resolved amicably."  He turned to Umbridge.  "Professor, as I was saying -- "

Umbridge simply ignored him, speaking to Ed, not Dumbledore, "Mr. Carpenter, this isn't a referee decision, but a disciplinary action, and Educational Decree Number 25 gives me ultimate authority in deciding punishments.  In this case, for _cheating_."

"But Ced told you he didn't charm that Snitch --"

"Mr. Diggory offered a complex theory involving personal vendettas against him hatched by some unknown fellow student -- an unnecessarily complex explanation.  A simple one serves better**:  **Mr. Diggory is the culprit.  I'll extend your team the benefit of the doubt, assuming Diggory acted on his own, rather than revoke Hufflepuff's right to play.  But I simply must insist that Hufflepuff default.  As for you, Mr. Diggory -- you'll be gated all next week.  And to think I have to gate the _Head Boy_!  What's Hogwarts coming to?"

Hermione didn't know what it was coming to, but did know what it was _going_ to -- the dogs.  Or the toads, as the case would be.

"Professor Umbridge," Dumbledore snapped in a new tone -- far less polite -- that riveted attention.  "As I have been trying to say, talented as he is, Mr. Diggory simply could not have cast the spells of which he's been accused -- not while in his new Animagus form.  It's impossible.  Logic therefore argues he can't be our culprit and we must look elsewhere."

Appearing suddenly discomfitted, Umbridge frowned.  "Lacking a more likely suspect, I'm afraid I must disagree, Professor Dumbledore.  I don't see who else it could have been, and therefore, won't reverse my decision."  And she waddled away.

Sprout and Hooch gaped after her, while the team and Hermione looked at Dumbledore.  Dumbledore ignored everybody but Cedric.  Kneeling down, he laid a hand on Cedric's shoulder and withdrew his wand.  "You've been very brave, Mr. Diggory," he said, touching the wand to the broken part of Cedric's lower arm.  "This isn't too bad."  And he raised his eyes to meet Cedric's.  "It's repairable."

Somehow, Hermione didn't think Dumbledore was talking about Cedric's arm.

The Headmaster muttered a spell and Cedric dropped his eyes, fisting his hand and twisting the arm, checking to be certain everything worked right.  "It's my fault," he said.  "I shouldn't have transfigured."

"I begged you to, mate," Ed said, dismissing his team to the showers before squatting down by Cedric.  "Team morale and all, right?"

"I should have refused."

Professor Sprout had knelt too, although Hooch had gone off with an angry shake of her head.  "You did it for the House.  And no one will believe such nasty accusations."

He laughed bitterly.  "That's just it, professor -- I'm afraid they will."

"Cedric, no!  Your reputation --"

"Reputations can be ruined, and Professor Umbridge has done a lot of damage to mine lately.  What makes me so angry" -- he swallowed -- "is that this time it was my own _stupid_ ego that gave her the chance.  I just _had_ to show off."

"I said I begged you to!" Ed protested, clearly growing distraught at the fact Cedric was blaming himself for something Ed considered to be his decision.

"I could have turned you _down_!" Cedric snapped.  "I should have!  But no!  I wanted . . . I just wanted to fly with the team _one more time_.  I cost you the match, and now I've played right into her hands."

Hermione wanted to weep at the self-hatred she could hear in his voice.  Dumbledore must have heard it too, as he spoke again, although he'd been quiet, listening.  "Cedric, you are, after all, human, and hindsight is always twenty-twenty.  A battle may have been lost, but the war is far from over."  And patting Cedric's leg, he got to his feet, sighing as his bones creaked.  "I believe that Mending Spell will do well enough to get you back to the castle, but you should still see Madam Pomfrey."

"Yes, sir."

Leaning in, Sprout grabbed Cedric by the back of the head and kissed his cheek, then rose, too.  "I need to get back to the Sett before there's a riot."

That left just Ed, Hermione and Cedric.  In the distance, Hermione could see Ron and Harry standing by, watching.  Hermione waved them away and they turned, heading back to the castle.  She didn't think Cedric wanted to be mobbed just now.  Peter and Scott were also standing on the sidelines but Ed raised a hand to beckon them over.  Cedric reached out to shove the hand down.  "No.  Just -- leave me alone for a little, all right?  I just want to be alone."

"Ced, you know none of this is your fault."

"Yes, it is!" he practically shouted.  "It's all my fault, fundamentally!  _I_ made the decision to tell the truth about Voldemort."  Ed flinched at the name.  "Dumbledore warned me this could happen, but I did it anyway.  And I'd do it again!"  He glared defiantly at Ed.  "It's the _truth_.  Everything I said happened really happened!  But they're going to destroy me if they can for telling the fucking _truth_.  If you, Peter and Scott have any damn sense, you'll stay as far away from me as you can."

Ed's whole expression changed, darkening to angry red, and he leaned in, got right in Cedric's face.  "Now you listen, Diggory -- you're _mental_ if you think we're abandoning you.  Right off your rocker.  You didn't want company last June -- all right, fine, I made Peter honor that and stay clear.  We reckoned it was pride.  I understand pride; I'd have been the same, in your shoes.  But you're not driving us off this time -- you got that, you stubborn bastard?"

And in that moment, Hermione loved Ed Carpenter.  She also -- finally -- understood why Cedric's mates hadn't come to see him over the summer.  _Cedric_ hadn't wanted it.  Out of pride.  And Ed maybe more than the others had understood.

"You're stuck with us," Ed added now.

Cedric laughed -- to keep from crying, Hermione suspected; he was a bit emotional sometimes.  Pulling Ed in, he hugged him, then shoved him away.  "Get out of here.  Go talk to the team."  His face hardened again.  "Umbridge may have won this round, but we're not done yet."

"That sounds more like you, mate."  Getting to his feet, Ed headed off.

Cedric turned to look at Hermione.  The field was slowly emptying.  "Think you can get away with hanging around just by being quiet, Granger?"

"It's working, isn't it?" she pointed out.

"What if I said I really want to be alone?"

"I'd tell you to go jump in the lake."  Her reply made him laugh soundlessly in cynical amusement.  "Being alone is the last thing you need right now.  Let's just sit here."

So they sat under gray clouds on the dry grass of the pitch and waited for everybody to clear out as the sun dipped towards the horizon.  She held his hand.


	20. Cheater, Cheater, Pumpkin Eater

Being gated was the worst punishment Hogwarts still allowed before expulsion.  On Sunday morning, Cedric was called to Umbridge's office to be informed of the extent of his restrictions.  They were predictably extreme, and he decided he'd have preferred one of Filch's vaunted floggings.

Throughout the next week, from Sunday until the following Saturday, his movements were to be restricted from the time he rose until he went to bed at night, when his door would be spelled shut by Umbridge herself -- including the door to the bath.  Locked in.  During the day, he had to have a card signed at breakfast and lunch by Umbridge, and after every class by that class's teacher, proving he was present.  He wasn't allowed to eat dinner with his House; it was brought to his rooms, where he was then restricted for the evening and permitted no company.  If he requested library time, he was escorted there by Umbridge and watched by Pince.  He was still expected to keep up his duties as Head Boy, which meant overseeing Christmas decorations, taking report, and other responsibilities.  Umbridge was always present, or Filch, watching him.

For someone who'd had a total of two detentions in his entire school career, it was humiliating and all but intolerable -- especially given the catcalls between class from Slytherin students.  "Cheater, cheater, pumpkin eater, had a wife and couldn't keep her!  Where's your swotty mudblood girlfriend, Diggory?  She go back to Viktor Krum, the real champion?  Ooo, woops -- said a bad word there, but I don't suppose you can give detention right now, can you?"  Malfoy and his friends were having a field day, and even Zabini had backed off from any connection with Cedric -- who wasn't particularly surprised.

Nor was the slander restricted only to the school.  Monday morning at breakfast, Umbridge hand delivered a copy of _The Daily Prophet_, opened to page 3, where a sidebar carried:

**Scandal at Hogwarts:****  
Head Boy Caught Cheating?**

_Albus Dumbledore's hand-selected Head Boy, Cedric Diggory, has been accused of interfering with Saturday's Quidditch match between his House team, Hufflepuff, and their traditional rival, Ravenclaw.  Diggory -- who excels at Charms -- is believed to have bewitched the Golden Snitch to keep it out of the hands of the Ravenclaw Seeker long enough for his own team to score sufficient points to win the match.  Hogwart's Ministry-Appointed High Inquisitor, Dolores Umbridge, considered the circumstantial evidence against him to be so overwhelming that she gated Diggory._

_ Reactions to Diggory's exposure have been mixed.  Formerly known for his honesty, Diggory may not be as honest as popular opinion at Hogwarts has painted him.  "I think this calls a lot of assumptions about him into question," said Marius Montague, Slytherin's Quidditch Captain.  "His reputation's always been a bit over-rated, if you know what I mean?  No one's that bona fide; I reckoned he had to be hiding something.  Makes me wonder how often he's cheated in the past and no one's even thought to question it because, well, he's _Cedric Diggory_.  He doesn't cheat.  I think we all know now that statue's got clay feet."  And Ravenclaw's captain Roger Davies said, "I'm disappointed.  I thought better of Diggory.  It's a bit of a blow, you know?  It would've been nice to think there was still one honest bloke out there."_

_Of course, Headmaster Dumbledore maintains his selected Head Boy's innocence and refuses to remove him from office.  Nepotism?_

Cedric felt quite literally sick after reading it.  "It can't be nepotism," he ground out, "I'm not _related_ to Dumbledore.  They can't even use the right bloody word."  And he flung the paper into the middle of the table.  Peter picked it up and scanned the sidebar.

"Can't believe Davies said that.  And the article's total hogwash.  We all know the truth, Ced."

Jaw tight, Cedric glared at the high table for a moment.  Umbridge was watching him with her sick smile -- watching, watching, always watching.  "She's a fucking voyeur," he muttered.

"She really hates your guts, that's for sure," Peter agreed.

Cedric ignored his mail for the next three days.  It was sifted, Umbridge delivering to him only those letters 'cleared' for his reading.  He read one -- vitriolic and strident -- and threw all the rest into the fireplace in his rooms.  Maybe a few had been supportive, but he doubted it.  They just made him ill and dizzy again.  He'd never received _hate_ mail before.

The painting in the Main Entrance showed a new frame**:  **a hard frost had come to the forest glade, icing tree limbs and crusting over the pond.  The badgers huddled in their hole in the tree bole, the lion was gone, and the snake was nowhere to be seen.  Cedric couldn't find the eagle either, but there was a shadow hidden in the undergrowth like the figure of something large. 

On Tuesday, Roger Davies, of all people, approached Cedric before History of Magic started.  He held out a hand to shake.  Cedric refused to take it, just glared up from his seat.

"I know what the paper said," Davies began, running the ignored hand through his hair.  "They quoted me out of context.  Well, sort of."  He pulled around a chair and faced Cedric over the desk.  "Look, Diggory, on Saturday I didn't know what to think.  It was pretty damn suspicious.  I've talked to Cho since, and Violet, and I know you.  I'd like to think I'm not that gullible to misjudge you so thoroughly for seven years.  Besides, Violet told me that Dumbledore said there's no way you could've cast those spells in eagle form without a wand.  I didn't think of that Saturday; I should have.  I should've known that you cheating is pure codswallop."

Cedric regarded Davies a moment more, then bowed his head.  "I didn't cheat.  I give you my word."

"I believe you.  But somebody did, yeah?"

"Yeah," Cedric agreed, lifting his eyes.  "Somebody _did_.  You're clever; figure it out, Davies."  Binns appeared then through the chalkboard and the lesson began.

Perhaps predictably, Cedric's gating meant he wasn't permitted to transfigure, even when McGonagall tried to insist on it.  "He needs to practice this new skill just like any other!"

"I think he aptly demonstrated his ability at the match on Saturday.  He also did so outside his mentor's supervision and without yet having his registration formally cleared."

McGonagall pursed her lips and glanced at Cedric, who knew Umbridge had a point, but under the circumstances, McGonagall wasn't giving ground.  "We sent the paperwork to the Improper Use of Magic office on Friday, Dolores -- as you know.  His registration seems to be suspiciously _late_ in being returned as recorded."

Umbridge fluttered fingers airily.  "These things take time, Minerva.  In any case, and until he's been notified that he's entered on the Register, he's not to transform."  And she walked away, leaving him with McGonagall, who blew out in frustration and glared at him.  He dropped his eyes to his shoes, shame eating his gut.  As angry as he might be at Umbridge, as much as he realized he'd been set up, he also knew he'd left an opening for it and that's what infuriated him most.  Unlike the matter of the Abdoleo, this _was_ his fault.

"Chin up, Diggory," McGonagall told him.  "And watch your Ps and Qs.  Get through the week -- you're halfway there -- then there's only one more week before break."

His interaction with his mates was restricted to class, and Umbridge wouldn't let Hermione sit with him at breakfast or lunch.  The most they could do was meet briefly in the hallways.  And write.  It was like their covert time at the year's beginning, but conducted with more care.  Any misstep on Cedric's part would give Umbridge an excuse to lengthen his gating.  At least she hadn't removed his title as Head Boy.  Technically, she couldn't -- only the Headmaster could do that -- but Cedric didn't doubt she'd have found a way if she'd wanted to.  He suspected her real reason was because she liked seeing him come forward in his badge to ask meekly for her signature on his gate card.

His punishment was over as of seven o'clock on Sunday morning.  Cedric was awake, dressed and waiting in his rooms to have Umbridge arrive to unseal his doors.  She didn't arrive until eight-thirty.  "So sorry," she told him.  "My alarm didn't go off.'

It was, he thought, her last swipe.  After all, what could he do?  An hour and a half wasn't enough to complain about, just enough to make him angry and anxious -- and to miss breakfast.

He finally made it downstairs at a quarter to nine to find Hermione waiting in the Main Entrance, chewing nails and looked distraught.  Seeing him exit the antechamber where the lift was located, she came running, engulfing him in a bear hug.  "I thought she'd changed her mind!"

"So did I," he whispered, pressing his chin hard into the top of her head because he couldn't hug her back.  "She was just late -- stringing me along.  As Merlin's my witness, I've missed you.  Please tell me you don't have any homework to do today."

Laughing she pulled back.  "All done already.  You?"

"I've had nothing but time, Granger; I'm all caught up.  Get me out of this castle, please."

"Aren't you hungry?  And it snowed last night."

"Don't care; I'll eat later.  Just get me _out _of here."

* * *

They headed for the covered bridge.  Snow was still coming down, but not heavily and she melted a path for them.  He walked with head down, although she didn't think it was just to see his way, and that worried her.  One of the things she'd noticed about Cedric even before she'd known him well was that -- unlike many tall men -- he didn't slouch.  He might slump in his seat over a book, but he walked with his back straight and chin up.  The crutches hadn't changed that, except insofar as he couldn't fully straighten.  He still walked with his chin raised, and even on crutches, he was imposing.

Not today.  Head lowered like a winded horse, he dragged his feet more than usual.  It went beyond posture.  Hermione had seen him sad and angry in hospital that summer.  She'd seem him frustrated, confused, and plain hurt earlier that year.  Today there was a new darkness in him that worried her.  He seemed . . . lost -- haunted, as if he weren't quite sure what to do with himself anymore.  The past week had been just horrible; Umbridge had an uncanny knack for zeroing in on a person's weaknesses.  With Harry, she'd taken advantage of his ignorance of the Wizarding World to use her punishment quill, knowing he wouldn't tell -- that pride would stop him from doing so.  Then she'd taken his broom and his team participation.  With Cedric, she'd isolated him and attacked his good name.  To be accused of cheating before the whole Wizarding World, and for something as relatively unimportant as a Quidditch match . . .

She wished he'd talk to her, but didn't know how to pry it out of him anymore than she could pry it out of Harry (at least out of Harry at anything less than a shout).  Cedric wasn't free with the deep-down things, especially his fears and sorrows and griefs.  He was far too damnably male.  So she spent all Saturday trying to think of things to win his smile, make him happy.  The smiles came, but she suspected he was giving them to please her, not because he felt them.  She finally lured him back inside out of the cold but the enclosure of a roof and walls seemed to cause him to stoop further.  She remembered him free in the sky the Saturday before.  "Why don't you go flying?"  It might be the one thing that would cheer him up.

"Can't," he said shortly.  "Not allowed to transfigure again until confirmation comes back that I'm in the Register."

"But I thought you sent that over a week ago?"

"We did."

"Cedric, it can't take them that long --"

"I'm sure Umbridge is delaying it somehow," he cut her off.  "Whatever the case, I'm grounded."

It was a wonder, Hermione thought, that steam didn't spurt from her ears.  "The confirmation letter just means you're entered, right?"

"Yes."  He frowned.

"Once you're entered, you can transfigure legally?"

"Yes."

She nodded once.  "Then we'll make a query to prove you're in there."

He snorted.  "And you assume Umbridge won't read your mail?"

"Oh, I assume she will, but it's a perfectly legal query.  And if I don't hear back, I'll just send another letter.  And then another."

Finally his lips tipped up, but he was still frowning faintly.  "You're a stubborn girl, Granger."

"You like me stubborn," she told him, which made him chuckle.  A real laugh, finally.

"I do," he replied.  "As long as you're not being pig-headed in the bargain."

Her mouth opened.  "When am I ever pig-headed?"

"Frequently."  But he was still grinning so she didn't quarrel with him about it.  Instead she walked with him down towards the Great Hall.  It was almost dinnertime.  As they passed his mother's painting, she paused and stared at it.  He paused too.

A doe was peering out of the sparse foliage, her reddish coat heavy for winter, her ears twitching, head up, scenting for danger.  Beside Hermione, Cedric drew in a sharp breath and approached the painting.  Hermione expected the doe to dash off, but instead, she came forward until she and Cedric stood practically nose to nose.  There was something unsettling about her, but Hermione couldn't put her finger on it.

"Her eyes are as dark as yours, Granger," Cedric said softly.  "You have deer eyes."

"You have a funny way of giving a girl a compliment."  She tilted her head, then realized what she found so odd about the deer.  "She looks . . . really pregnant."

"She'll give birth on the twenty-first of December."

Hermione frowned.  "But I thought deer were born in the spring?  You know, so they can get enough growth before autumn?  Wouldn't a fawn born in winter have a really poor chance?"

He threw back his head and just laughed.  It made the doe start and leap back several bounds, oddly awkward and graceful at once.  But she didn't flee further, just kept looking at him.  "It's a _myth_, Granger!" Cedric said.  "Not zoology!"

"Well," Hermione replied, nonplussed, "shouldn't a myth make some sort of sense?"

Turning to look at her, he just shook his head, then they headed on to the Great Hall.  "The god is born at midwinter," Cedric explained, "lies with the goddess at Beltane, and dies at midsummer, his blood fertilizing the fields.  He's born again to his mother-lover the next midwinter."

"I know that."  She frowned.  "But wait."  She counted rapidly on her fingers.  "That's only seven months from the first of May.  How can it take only seven months for a baby?"

"You're overanalyzing, Granger.  It's a _myth_.  M.Y.T.H.  It doesn't have to make sense to make sense, right?"

"_You're_ not making sense now," she told him, but fondly, her fingers curling into his back belt loop.

* * *

Monday, Cedric couldn't get out of bed.  The entire week he'd been under Umbridge's thumb, he'd managed to hold another attack at bay.  So naturally, on Monday he succumbed.  He was starting to grow . . . not used these episodes, but acquainted with them.  They were going to be a fact of his life from that point on.  "I hate this," he muttered to Hermione when she arrived to check his water and be sure he'd taken his potions at the right time (when he'd taken a lot of the Abdoleo, he wasn't entirely sure of the hour).  "I hate being helpless so _fucking_ much."

"I know," Hermione said.  "Sit up and drink some juice.  You'll get dehydrated otherwise."  He obeyed and let her finish taking care of him because she did so with a matter-of-factness that was all he could bear at these times, no apologies, no tearful Weltschmerz.  She just did what was necessary -- even emptied his bedside urinal, which should probably have horrified him but she didn't ask first and he was too high to protest.  Coming back to sit on the side of his bed, she rubbed his back until he fell asleep.

Tuesday morning, he was grumpy.  "It's never going to go away," he snarled when she turned up outside his door to see if he was ready (and able) to go down for breakfast.

"I know," she said in the same tone she'd used all the day before.  "Do you have your books?"

"Did you hear what I said?"

"Yes, I did.  These episodes will never go away.  I understand that.  Let's go to breakfast."

He started to tell her she should find somebody whole and healthy, but the truth was he didn't _want_ her to.  Selfish as it might have been, he didn't want Hermione to leave him, so he made sure he had his book bag and they headed for the lift.  He was in his wheelchair that day to put less strain on his lower body, and despite his initial bad temper (or perhaps because of it) he was especially good to her all through breakfast, whispering, "Love you," before she departed.

She kissed his cheek and whispered back, "Harry just told me -- DA tomorrow.  Usual time.  Ta."

At 7:30 Wednesday, Harry came by with the Maurader's Map to collect him and they made their way up to the seventh floor in the lift, then consulted the map to be sure no one was in the hallway.  They found the room unexpectedly decorated for the holidays with gold baubles and mistletoe and greenery.  Cedric laughed when he saw what was written on the balls**:  **_Have a Very Harry Christmas!  _Harry turned beet red and started pulling them down.  "Dobby did this," he muttered.  "Not me."

"I didn't reckon it was you.  Who's Dobby?"

"The house-elf I told you about?  He's, er, a bit of a fan."

"Oh, yes -- the Malfoy's elf."

Harry paused to eye Cedric speculatively and Cedric could guess what he was thinking.  "I'm not a Malfoy, Harry.  Just my mother.  And the elf's been freed anyway."

"How does that work?" Harry asked as he pulled down the offending baubles.  Cedric helped as best he could from the chair.  "I mean, all I know is what Dobby's told me.  And Hermione.  And a little from Sirius, who hates his elf."

Cedric smiled.  He doubted any of those was a good source.  "A house-elf is bound by vows to the family he or she serves.  It's . . . supposed to be a symbiotic relationship, like the feudal system.  We give them a place to stay and protect them, and they take care of us."

"D'you think it's really fair though?" Harry asked, not in the tone Hermione used but as if he were wondering about it himself.  "I mean, I saw how Lucius Malfoy treated Dobby.  And Dobby seems happy to be free.  But Winky isn't.  And the others here -- well, I didn't tell Hermione, and don't you either, but Dobby took all the hats she knitted before she stopped.  The other elves wouldn't go near Gryffindor Tower as long as she was doing that.  Dobby told me they were insulted."  Cedric's smile deepened.  He wasn't at all surprised to hear that.

"Hermione means well," Cedric said, "I get that, I do, but she doesn't understand."  He tossed the last of the baubles into the box Harry had found to hide them.  "Look at your house-elf, Dobby --"

"He's not my house-elf, Ced."

"Yes, he is.  He serves you because he wants to.  That's how it began, I think.  Different creatures seem to have certain . . . instincts, I suppose.  House-elves may be intelligent, but they're not like us.  That's what I was trying to get across to Hermione.  They want to serve . . . need to.  If they don't have service already determined for them, they'll find someone to serve -- like Dobby and you.  He may not be bound to you by magical vows, but I dare say he'd do pretty much anything you asked him to."

Harry frowned.  "But he doesn't _have_ to.  That's the difference.  Hermione's a little, er, _intense_ sometimes but I can't say I really disagree with her."  Harry looked over at Cedric, frowning slightly.  "I appreciate what Dobby does . . . well" -- he held up one of the decorations -- "not for stuff like this, but you know what I mean.  Still, I don't _make _him.  He doesn't _have_ to.  I wouldn't want that.  Ron says you have an elf.  Doesn't it bother you, owning somebody?"

Breathing out, Cedric spun his chair to face Harry.  "You don't understand, either."

Harry was frowning.  "I guess I don't.  I'm not trying to criticize, I just . . . don't understand.  The feudal system went out a couple centuries ago."

"When it works right, Harry, everybody benefits.  Everybody is happy."

"What about when it doesn't?  What about when an elf beats himself up for trying to save me because he's breaking his master's orders, but his master is evil and he hates him?  There's something wrong with that picture, isn't there?"

Frowning, Cedric looked away.  "Maybe that's what Hermione should be concentrating on."  He didn't want to talk about it.  Harry had valid points, and perhaps because he hadn't raised them the way Hermione had, Cedric found himself more disturbed.  Or maybe he'd just begun to question a lot of things of late that he hadn't questioned before.

In any case, he and Harry had no more time for discussion, as Luna Lovegood had arrived and was talking to Harry about the nargles in the mistletoe.  Cedric turned away to conceal his grin.  Life without Luna would be so much less interesting.

This final DA meeting before the holidays amounted to review, and for a change, Cedric paired himself with Hermione.  They'd been working privately on her speed, and he was inordinately pleased when she managed to disarm him at least once and almost twice.  She was never going to be exceptionally fast, but she could, at least, hold her own against a more experienced wizard.

At the end of the evening, Harry sent off the DA members in ones and twos as usual.  It was clear that Cho was trying to hang around for a moment alone with Harry, and even though Cedric usually came and went with the younger boy, this time, he headed for the door alone.  "Ced, you can wait," Harry told him.  "I mean, I know it's easier for you --"

"Just tell me where Filch and Mrs. Norris are.  I'll be fine."

"Are you sure?" Harry asked.  Cho was looking exasperated and Cedric resisted putting a hand over his face.  The boy was utterly clueless.

"Just let me see the map," Cedric said, motioning Harry closer to whisper, "You idiot, Cho wants you to stay.  Hang out a while, then walk her back to Ravenclaw Tower and avoid the prefects.  No reason to waste perfectly good mistletoe."  Harry's green eyes widened, as if he were terrified at the thought.

Filch was nowhere nearby, so Cedric wheeled out, glad Cho was rather a forward girl.  If left to Harry, Cedric doubted anything would ever happen.

As per usual, Hermione dropped by his office after report.  "Have you seen Harry?  Ron said he didn't come back to the Gryffindor common room.  You don't think --"

"He's with Cho."

"What?"

Cedric grinned and looked up at her.  "He's with Cho."

Both Hermione's eyebrows went up and she came all the way into his office, pushing the door to but not closing it.  Grinning in delight, she slipped around his desk to settle in his lap.  "I hope he knows what to do now that he's finally got her alone."

"If he doesn't, Cho will."

"Boys are so hopeless."

He grinned.  "Some of them.  Not all of them."  And he pulled her head down to kiss her.  "I'd like to think I'm not that bad."

"Who practically required a gilt-edged invitation to kiss me the first time?"

"Well, I didn't want to get slapped."

She ran her hand fondly down his face.  "Like you really thought you were in danger of being slapped after all that led up to it?"

He smiled.  "It's a bit nerve wracking, you know, for a boy.  Trying to figure out whether she really wants to be kissed, or you just think she does."

"Well it's not so much better for the girl, wondering what she's got to do to get the bloke to just kiss her."

"Boss him around in your case."

Giggling, she leaned back against him in the chair.  "Fine then.  Kiss me, I command you."

He turned his head to do so, shifting up at the last moment to kiss the end of her nose rather than her mouth.  "You berk," she said, laughing, then laughing harder and wiggling on his lap when he tickled her.

"You're a wicked little witch."  Her wiggles were rather arousing, and he wasn't sure if she were doing that on purpose, but she wasn't quite the innocent little thing she'd been even two months ago.

"Ah -- am I interrupting?"

They both jumped and spun, breathing hard.  Harry stood in Cedric's office doorway, looking between them with flaming cheeks.  "You're, ah, sort of loud.  Might want to use that spell, Ced."

Now they were all blushing and it wasn't a terribly comfortable moment for any of them.  Standing, Hermione asked Harry, "Looking for me?"

"Actually, no.  I wanted, um, I mean I wondered if perhaps I could talk to Cedric?"

Her mouth made a silent 'Oh,' and Cedric squeezed her hand, which he was still holding, looking up at her.  "I'll see you tomorrow."  Nodding, she slipped out past Harry.  "Come in," Cedric said to Harry, and noticed how -- now that the embarrassing moment was past -- Harry's face had shifted from flaming to simply glowing.  Cedric stifled a grin.  "So?" he asked.

"She, ah -- yeah.  Um, well . . . "  The boy was practically stuttering and for all that Cedric was amused (and a bit sympathetic), he also wondered why Harry was sitting _here_, not off in Gryffindor Tower telling Ron all about it.  "We talked," Harry said finally.  "Cho and I, I mean.  For a while."

"That's all?"

Harry didn't have to answer; his face did it for him, flushing scarlet to the roots of his hair.  Cedric had to bite his tongue to keep from laughing as laughing wasn't what Harry needed right now.  "And?" Cedric prompted again.

"And, well -- are you really all right with this?" Harry asked.  "I mean, I know you told me to stay, and you told me before to ask her out before someone else did, but, well, er, I just . . . I had to ask.  If you're not all right with it --"

"It's fine, Harry."  Cedric thought he understood now what Harry was doing here.  It wasn't to gloat, or share excitement.  Harry's sense of honor required that he clear the air.  "I'm really glad," Cedric added now, smiling a bit ruefully.  "And that's not just my guilt talking."

Harry nodded, started to rise, then blurted out, "Is it always that wet?  Kissing, I mean?"  Then he seemed to realize what he'd just asked -- and of whom -- and turned that same brilliant scarlet.

Cedric couldn't hold it back anymore.  Leaning over his desk, he just laughed -- quietly, but still.  Harry appeared, if possible, even more mortified.  "I'm not laughing at you!" Cedric said, although that wasn't entirely true.  "It's just . . . " He trailed off, getting himself under control only when Harry stood as if to leave.  "No!  Don't go.  Sit down."  Confused, Harry obeyed, and Cedric sighed, trying to manage his amusement.  He wanted to say, 'You remind me of me,' but that wasn't quite correct.  He didn't think he'd ever been as awkward as Harry.  Nonetheless, "I remember the first time I kissed a girl -- really kissed one, not a peck on the lips -- I was thinking, 'Oh, Merlin, she just put her _tongue_ in my mouth!  Is she supposed to do that?'" And he started laughing again.

This time, Harry laughed with him, but as if surprised Cedric would have such doubts.  It struck Cedric that Harry probably had no one to talk to about such things.  Ron?  Ron had no more experience than Harry did, and heaven knew, the twins weren't the type to inspire confidences.  Harry might talk to Hermione, but then again, he might not.  She was a girl.  Harry didn't have a big brother.

And Cedric didn't have a little brother.  But he'd always wanted one.  "The answer to your question is yes, it's wet.  And there is a tongue involved, at least sometimes."  Harry was still blushing hotly, but grinning now, and looking a bit relieved.  "Best advice?  Don't worry it to death, all right?  Take your time, experiment, see what feels good.  It's not a contest.  Or a Quidditch match."  That made Harry grin harder, and Cedric remembered something Hermione had said to him about the way he kissed.  "It's . . . a conversation.  Without words.  Give and take.  You have to risk a little."  He almost added, 'Cho's a good kisser,' but thought that might be a bit more explicit than they needed to share.  It was one thing to give Harry general advice, it was another to acknowledge it was advice for the same girl Cedric had been seeing last year -- and he hoped to hell Cho didn't try to rush Harry.  She had far more experience than he did.  "Feel your way, don't think your way through it, right?"

Harry nodded, started to say something but apparently couldn't, cleared his throat and squeaked out, "Thanks."

"You're welcome.  Any time, all right?"  Then, to change the subject, he asked, "So what are you doing for Holidays?"

"Going to the Burrow.  Uh -- Ron's, I mean."  He tilted his head.  "It's not that far from your house, is it?"  Cedric shook his head.  "Maybe you could come over sometime?"

"Yeah, I'd like that.  As long as Mrs. Weasley doesn't mind and the twins don't decide to try out their jokes on me.  Or you could come visit me, you and Ron.  He knows where I live."

Polite exchanges made to cover the embarrassing frankness, Harry stood to leave when Cedric said, "Can I ask _you_ a question?" surprising himself as much as he surprised Harry.  Harry nodded and Cedric licked his lips.  "How did you bear it last year?  All the gossip about you?  I don't --   The things they're saying about me . . .   That's never happened to me before."  He frowned and scraped with his nail at a bit of candle wax on his desk top.  "I don't like to be the center of attention really -- makes me uncomfortable.  It's what I liked least about being a Champion, people watching me all the time, talking about me.  But it wasn't hostile."  He looked up at Harry, suddenly as tongue-tied as Harry had been about the subject of kissing, and the tables were turned.  Harry appeared knowing and sympathetic now -- but not amused in the least.  He sat back down.

"I don't know that I have an answer," he told Cedric.

"But you're tough under fire.  I envied you last year how well you bore it.  I guess you've been rather the center of attention a long time, good and bad.  You don't let it get to you."

Harry shrugged.  "I don't like it.  But what can I do?"

"Tell them to bugger off?  You have a right to a private life, you know -- Boy Who Lived or not."

Harry grinned.  "I don't think they'll listen."  He looked Cedric in the eye.  "Ignore it, Ced.  I mean I know that's easier said than done, but it's all you _can_ do.  The people who know you -- we know what _The Daily Prophet_ said was tripe.  Who cares what anybody else thinks, yeah?"

But that was just the problem; Cedric did care.  "I worry about embarrassing my parents," he admitted.

Harry tilted his head.  "I don't think they're going to stop caring about you.  I mean, from what I saw, your dad thinks you're the bee's knees."

Cedric laughed and scratched the back of his head.  "Yeah, he's a bit embarrassing, isn't he?"

"He loves you."

"Maybe now, but what's he going to make of a son at home all the time?  I don't know anymore what I'm going to do when I finish school -- assuming I manage to finish and Umbridge doesn't expel me.  I don't know if I can get a job -- who's going to hire a druggie cripple?"  He wasn't sure why he was blurting out all this bitterness and uncertainty to a boy three years younger than him instead of to his mates or Hermione, but he felt able to tell Harry things he wasn't sure the rest would understand.

Harry had scooted forward, elbows on Cedric's desk.  "What did you want to do, before?"

"Work in International Magical Cooperation," Cedric admitted.  "I wanted . . . "  he hesitated, then confessed, "I wanted to be an ambassador one day."  Harry's green eyes had grown big.  "I know, it sounds silly and egotistical --"

"No, it doesn't," Harry interrupted.  "You'd be brilliant."

"You think so?"

"Yeah, I do -- a lot better than Barty Crouch."

Cedric smiled.  "Crouch wasn't an ambassador, Harry, he just ran the department.  Different things."  He looked up at Harry and the smile fell away.  "I'm never going to get hired at the Ministry while Fudge is in office.  I don't even want to be -- I don't want to work for him."

Harry just nodded.

"All of which assumes the Ministry would even consider me in the first place."

That made Harry grin.  "You?  If things were normal, Ministry departments would be fighting over you.  I mean, if they hired _Percy _. . . "  And that made them both grin.  "Everything's gone mad, hasn't it?" Harry asked.

Cedric nodded. "Yeah, it has, rather."  Neither of them seemed to know what to say after that.  They stared at each other a moment more, then Harry rose and left and Cedric returned to his rooms.  He wasn't sure he felt any better, but he did feel that maybe he had someone to talk to about it all, someone other than Hermione.  As much as he loved her, she hadn't been there in the graveyard.

* * *

As Hermione didn't share a room with Ginny, she had no idea anything had happened until morning when a rather distraught Neville pulled her aside in the common room to tell her that Harry had suffered a vivid dream the night before and become violently ill -- then had claimed to have seen Mr. Weasley attacked by, of all things, a snake.  Professor McGonagall had taken Harry and Ron to see the Headmaster.  Neither Harry nor Ron had come back, and now _all _the Weasleys were gone.  "Do you think it really happened?" Neville asked her, as if he just assumed she'd have the answer.  "Is Harry a Seer, too?"

Hermione shook her head.  "He's not a Seer, but, well --" She wasn't sure she should tell more, but it was Neville and Neville had believed Harry all along, stood by him.  "It's something odd about his scar.  It sort of connects him to You Know Who."  Neville's mouth opened and Hermione hastened to add, "Not in a bad way, but he sometimes . . . sees things."

Then she gripped Neville by the wrist, "Come on, there's someone who needs to know about all this."

"But I already told Professor McGonagall."

"Not McGonagall."  She pulled him out of the common room, down all the flights of stairs, and over to where Cedric was waiting in his usual spot near the lift.  Realizing where -- or rather to whom -- she was taking him, Neville planted feet and resisted.  "_What?_" Hermione asked, spinning to glare.

"You want me to . . . to _talk_ to Cedric Diggory?"

Hermione resisted rolling her eyes.  "Neville, he's not going to _eat_ you.  He's a perfectly nice person."

"Yeah, to you!"  His light brown eyes were wide and the expression reminded Hermione of how intimidating Cedric could seem to others -- how intimidating he'd seemed to her on the train even after she'd known him.

She slipped an arm around Neville's back and tugged him forward.  "Listen to me, Neville, you've been around Cedric in every DA lesson -- "

"Not really.  I stay away from him and his friends, don't want them laughing at me."

"Cedric doesn't laugh at people -- not like that."  And she was stuck by sudden inspiration.  "Did you know he's friends with Luna?"

"He is?"

"Yup.  They grew up near each other, and I've heard him defend her to others.  Trust me, he won't be mean to you."

They'd reached him in any case.  He was looking curiously from Hermione to Neville and back.  "Tell Cedric what you told me," Hermione prompted.  Even so, Neville stood mute, staring at Cedric, who tried smiling encouragingly.  It didn't help.  Hermione prodded Neville again, who dropped his eyes to stare at Cedric's feet.

"Uh, well, er, last night, Harry had a dream --" And Neville told Cedric what he'd told Hermione earlier, then gave more detail when Cedric asked a few questions, but seemed glad to escape when Cedric thanked him solemnly and let him go on to breakfast.

"Is there a reason he acted like I might give him a detention just for breathing?" Cedric asked.

Shaking her head, Hermione said, "He thinks he's a bit of bumbler.  And you're, well, you."

Cedric's eyebrows went up.  "Sprout says he's bloody brilliant at Herbology.  And I've seen him in Harry's lessons.  He's no slouch there.  His parents were Aurors, after all."

Surprised, Hermione looked up at him.  "Neville's parents were _Aurors_?"

"Yeah, you didn't know?  He never mentioned it?"

"No, he didn't."  She frowned, wondering why.  "I thought he lived with his grandmum?"

"I think he does now.  His parents were wounded in the war, or killed -- I don't rightly remember."

Hermione continued to frown a moment, then shook her head.  "You should tell him what you just told me about Sprout.  It might do him some good.  And what do you think happened to Mr. Weasley?  Was he really bitten by a snake?"

Cedric leaned in as if to kiss her, but whispered, "I think we probably shouldn't be talking about it too loudly."

"The Order?" she whispered back and he drew away, looking at her with those wide gray eyes.  "Do you know what's going on?" she asked -- almost demanded -- but he just shook his head.  "You don't know -- or you can't tell me?"

"Don't know, Granger."

She nodded and they headed for the Great Hall, talking of essays and revisions for exams and school things, although like her, Cedric's eyes flicked over the long tables to see who was present and if anything appeared amiss.  Aside from a dearth of red heads among the Gryffindors, everyone else seemed to be present.  Cedric seated himself beside Hermione and Angelina Johnson scooted down on the bench so she was across from them both, leaning in to whisper, "Do you know how Fred is?  And George?"

"You heard about Harry's dream?" Hermione asked in return and Angelina nodded vigorously.  "Then you know as much as we do."

A hush spread over the hall as Umbridge entered to seat herself at the High Table.  Only Slytherins didn't break off normal conversation.  Umbridge appeared unaware, but Hermione doubted she really was.  Umbridge also appeared irritable and tired, and when McGonagall entered to take her own seat -- not looking much better -- the two women openly glared at one another.  Dumbledore wasn't present.

Owl post was arriving in any case.  It came later and later these days and Hermione was sure that Umbridge had just finished sifting through it.  A rather important-looking owl sailed over Cedric's head to drop a large cream-colored letter almost in his porridge.  He snatched it off the bowl rim before it fell in his food.  "What's that?" Hermione asked, leaning in to see.

"Letter from the Ministry," he said, having checked the back flap.  Unsealing it quickly, he glanced over it then handed it to her.  "My confirmation that I'm in the Register."

Perhaps her inquiry had worked after all, and Hermione gave a little nod to herself, until she noticed the date.  "Did you see this?" she said, indignant and pointing to the letter's upper right-hand corner.

"Yeah, I saw it."

"She's had this over a week!"

"I know, Granger.  But I've got it now.  I can transform whenever I like."  He couldn't help grinning.  "Not a bad Christmas present."

And that made her think . . .   Shoving her half-finished breakfast aside, she dug in her book bag until she found a quill, ink and parchment.  He was watching her curiously.  "What are you doing?"

"Writing to my mum.  There's no way I'm going skiing at a time like this."

"I'm still trying to understand why you'd want to go skiing in the first place."

"What's skiing?" Angelina asked.

"A Muggle thing," Cedric explained.  "They strap planks to their feet and slide down the side of snowy mountains."

"Why?"

Hermione glared from Cedric, who was grinning, to Angelina, who merely appeared baffled.  "It's not that ridiculous, you two.  Not any more than planting your arse on a broom and swooping around after little gold balls, or red ones.  It's a _skill_.  A _sport._"

"Right," Cedric answered.  "And I know just _how_ much you were looking forward to it."

She might not have admitted to Ron that she didn't enjoy skiing, but Cedric had got an earful.  "My father loves it," she replied.  "So we go for his sake.  Don't knock what you haven't tried, Cedric."

He snorted in amusement.  'Don't think I'll be trying skiing in this lifetime, Granger."  She only then realized what she'd said and wanted to sink right through the bench even as Angelina pretended sudden interest in her cereal.  But Cedric leaned over to look into her face.  "Hey -- don't worry about it," he told her, and didn't sound especially bitter.  In fact, he was smiling at her.  "So what _are_ you planning for the hols?"

She frowned and returned to her letter.  "To visit the Weasleys to find out what's going on.  I'll tell mum that a lot of students in OWL year stay here to study and I'd better do the same."

He was frowning.  "Won't she be disappointed?"

"Well, yes, but -- "  She looked up at him.  "I can't leave for Switzerland right now!"

Abruptly he turned to dig in his own book bag and pulled out parchment.  Angelina had quit pretending to eat and was watching them both.  "Tell your mum you're coming to my house for Christmas," he told Hermione.  And opening his own ink bottle, he started writing.

"But then she'll ask why I can't come to Switzerland -- "

"I meant tell her you're staying here, but for Christmas, you'll be at my house.  That way, if she sends you presents, they won't come here -- where you won't be.  And besides" -- he was frowning, but not looking at her -- "the Weasley house might be in a bit of an uproar.  We don't live so far away.  You can stay with us and go to visit."

Hermione suspected ulterior motives lay behind his offer, but she hardly minded the thought of spending the holidays with him.  She'd more or less resigned herself to missing him desperately for three weeks.  "Won't your mum and dad mind?"

"Why do you think I'm writing to them, Granger?"

"Well then shouldn't I wait to tell my mum until we hear back from yours?"

Turning so he was nose to nose with her, he said, "I don't think they'll mind," then bent to whisper in her ear, brushing it with his lips and giving her shivers, "They probably already know something."  And he pulled away again, returning to his letter.

Angelina was rolling her eyes.  "You two are cloying.  And I assume one of you _will _owl me to let me know about Fred.  And George."

Cedric's lips curled up.  "I'll let you know," he assured her, "about Fred.  And George.  A little more about Fred I think."

"Shut it, Diggory."  And rising, she left them.

Hermione leaned over to Cedric.  "Have you figured out what's going on there?  I mean, are they or aren't they?"  She'd been wondering about those two ever since the ball last year.

Cedric just laughed.  "I'm not sure they're sure."  He looked at her, still smiling.  "Might get in the way of their fiercely independent reputations if anybody actually realized they're nuts about each other."

"You think they are?"

"Oh, absolutely."

"Well why doesn't he just ask her out?"

He stopped writing and eyed her again.  "Didn't you hear what I just said about 'fiercely independent reputations'?"

"Yes, but that's so silly if they really like each other."

"It is?"  His eyebrows went up.  "And here I thought you'd understand, Miss I-can't-be-bothered-with-romance-stop-being-so-ridiculous-Cedric."

She blushed.  It was true that she scolded him sometimes for being a bit . . . mushy.  But she also liked it.  "I don't mind.  I'm just . . . not very good at it myself."  She toyed with her quill and felt him peck her on the cheek.

"Don't worry about being good at it.  I'd take you being bad at it, all right?"

And that was, she thought, as close as Cedric got to expressing any form of dissatisfaction with the state of affairs.  There was a certain irony, she thought, in the _boy_ being the romantic one.  She watched him finish his letter and fingered the gold locket she never took off, vowing that she'd try to be a bit better in the future -- and perhaps she should think about getting him something for Christmas besides just those books he'd wanted, especially if she'd be at his house.

She was so wrapped up in her thoughts, and he busy with his letter, that neither of them noticed McGonagall had stopped behind them.  "I want to see you in the courtyard today at four-fifteen sharp, Mr. Diggory, for lessons."

He turned, then picked up the Ministry letter to hand it to her.  She perused it, lips pursed.  "Well.  It's about time."  And she handed it back, then gave Hermione a significant look.  "Miss Granger is permitted to watch, if she likes."  And spinning, McGonagall swept away.

"Why would I want to come to your lesson?"

He bent his face close to hers.  "Because it's not a lesson; it's an excuse.  We wanted answers.  I think we're going to get them."  And he kissed her lightly before pulling back.

"Hem, hem."

They both looked around again.  Umbridge, of course.  "A bit inappropriate at the breakfast table, don't you think?" she asked them.  "Five points from Gryffindor and five from Hufflepuff."  And she, also, swept off out of the hall.

"Bitch," Cedric muttered, almost too low even for Hermione to hear.  His face was dark with anger and his hand was almost shaking as he spelled his letter sealed.  As much as he'd detested Umbridge before his gating, it couldn't compare to how he hated her now, Hermione thought.

"Two more days," she told him, rubbing his back.  "Just two."

They promised to be a long two.  As it turned out, neither she nor Cedric received an explanation from McGonagall that afternoon, as Umbridge unexpectedly showed up in the courtyard, clipboard in hand.  "I trust you won't mind if I observe, Minerva?  The Ministry is interested not only in professors' classroom instruction but in their one-on-one mentoring, as well."

McGonagall glared but could hardly object without it seeming suspicious, so Umbridge and Hermione both watched . . . and Cedric fumbled spells badly, things Hermione knew he could do perfectly well.  McGonagall's usual stern expression had transformed into an outright scowl by the time the hour was up.  "What's the matter with you, Diggory?  You're off your form today."

Umbridge had drifted over, standing directly behind Cedric.  "These spells certainly seem above Mr. Diggory's skill level, Minerva.  Are you quite certain he shouldn't be in the regular Transfigurations class with the rest of his year?  He doesn't seem so advanced to me."

Cedric had straightened, but Hermione wasn't sure if it were from offended dignity or to put just another inch or two of air between himself and Umbridge.  "Diggory can do every one of these spells," McGonagall was saying.  "Today was supposed to be a review."  She studied Cedric over the top of her glasses.

"Well, I believe he failed it then."  Umbridge sounded smug.

"I said a _review_," McGonagall snapped, "not an exam."

"Don't you give tests in these independent classes?  However do you assign marks?"

"Of course I give tests.  But this wasn't one.  You're dismissed, Diggory.  I expect a better show in January."

Cedric just nodded and moved away, crossing to where Hermione waited even as Umbridge said, "Perhaps I should come back then for his exam?"

Hermione saw Cedric's face pale at that, and McGonagall sniffed in irritation.  "You've seen how I conduct a private lesson, Dolores.  There'll be no need for you to observe another."  And she stalked away.  Umbridge watched Hermione depart with Cedric.

Once inside, Hermione led him through the Entrance Hall and over to the antechamber, into the lift.  "What about dinner?" he asked.

"We'll go to dinner."  She let the lift doors close and faced him.  "What happened out there?  You're ten times better than that."

But he shook his head and stared at his feet.  "I can't -- She unnerves me."

"She didn't before.  I heard about you and the Goshawk in Charms."

He just frowned and didn't reply.

"Cedric --" Hermione moved so she could see his face, her mind full of memories of the punishment quill Umbridge had used on Harry.  The woman was sadistic.  "What did she do to you last week, Cedric?"

"Nothing.  Just watched me."

And Hermione frowned.  Surely that wasn't all?  "Just watched you?"

"Yes, just watched me."  But there was something else he wasn't telling her, just as Harry had tried to conceal the lines on his hand.  She could see it haunting Cedric's eyes.  What power of shame did Umbridge have over them both that they wouldn't tell her the truth without having it dragged out of them?  At the moment, though, she was too tired to fight him and would rather just be held.  That, at least, he seemed happy enough to do.

One more day now, she told herself.  Just one.

* * *

**Notes:  **'Chin up' (albeit to Cedric here) is a little nod to Koala, and the lovely snow manipulation of Cedric and Hermione was done by Cunning Croft.  I swear she read my mind for that scene.

  


	21. A Christmas Story

**Warning:** Adult material. Please remember the story is rated M.

* * *

The two bottles of pumpkin juice and four pasties she'd purchased from the Hogwarts' Express trolley gave Hermione full hands, and as she was looking at what she was carrying, not at where she was going, she bumped into the solid bulk of Millicent Bulstrode before she realized the other girl was there. Stepping backwards in surprise, she bumped into Pansy Parkinson behind her. Recognizing it for an ambush not an accident, she glared. "What do you want?"

"Playing waitress now, mudblood?" Millicent asked, eying the food. "They send you with their orders, the boys? What other orders do you take? Are you their bike? Do you do the other three after Diggory? Does he like to watch?"

"You're _disgusting_. Get out of my way," Hermione warned in a low voice.

"Or what? Going to jinx us with your hands full? Maybe we should take those from you so you can get to your wand. A little favor." Millicent reached for the pasties and juice but Hermione clutched them tighter against her chest.

"These aren't _yours_. Go and get your own."

"Greedy girl, aren't you?" Pansy purred in Hermione's ear. "Going to get _fat_. He won't like that, will he? Oh, but then he's not with you for your _looks_. Hair like a nightmare and that frightful voice, no tits to speak of. At least you fixed your buck teeth, didn't you? But we _all_ know what a pretty boy like Diggory sees in you, Hermione -- same angle Krum saw. Flat on your back with legs spread."

"Get away from me!" Hermione said more loudly, trying to push past Millicent, who refused to budge for a moment, then both girls drew away laughing as Hermione stormed past, down the train aisle towards the carriage where Cedric waited with Peter and Scott. Ed was in the carriage across from them, sitting with Susan, Zach Smith and Justin Finch-Fletchly. Hannah and Ernie had elected to stay behind to study (and not simply pretend to do so like Hermione).

Angry and hands full, Hermione shoved fruitlessly at the door latch until Scott rose inside and opened it for her. "You could have waited," she snapped at him. If he'd waited at the trolley, Pansy and Millicent wouldn't have bothered her.

His eyebrows went up. "I seem to remember you telling me to go on," he replied.

Hermione glared harder because it was true and she hated to be reminded that she was acting unreasonably when she was acting unreasonably. "Whatever," she said, thrusting the armload of food at Cedric, who was both frowning in confusion and smiling at once.

"Thanks," he said, taking three of the pasties and his bottle of juice. For some reason, she was struck by the odd detail that his hands were so big, he could hold all three pasties in one of them. Long legs and long, graceful surgeon's hands, a beautiful face and flawless skin -- what did he see in her?

Did he really expect her to be flat on her back with her legs spread?

_You're letting them get to you,_ she scolded herself. But they'd known just where to strike, of course -- the inequality between her appearance and Cedric's, between her popularity and what had been Cedric's, at least before.

She watched him take a huge bite from his meat pasty, then break the pumpkin one in half to feed part to Esiban. Long legs and hands -- and a big mouth too. She was relieved that he acted like a normal boy, not Apollo in the flesh. "You're going to choke one of these days," she told him, taking much more dainty bites from her own. The Cornish meat pasties were virtually the only thing one could get from the trolley that wasn't sweet, and Hermione wasn't terribly fond of sweet things.

"You eat like a lady," he said. "I eat -- "

"You eat like a pig, mate," said Scott -- who really was no better. He'd already finished the first two he'd bought and was started in on his third, speaking with his mouth full. Hermione rolled her eyes.

"Is there a rule that says boys can't show some table manners?"

"Show me the table and I'll show you my manners," Cedric told her, which made Peter and Scott laugh.

"You're awful."

"You tell me that frequently. You must like awful men."

"The same as you like ugly girls with terrible hair and a flat chest."

And _that_ had come out completely unintended. She turned a brilliant scarlet and all three boys gaped at her. "Never mind," she muttered, taking a gulp of pumpkin juice to wash down her food and then making a pillow of her school robe. She didn't know what to say and it was clear they didn't either. Closing her juice bottle and curling up on the compartment bench, she pretended to sleep.

A minute later, she heard the door open and Scott say, "I'm going to take a piss."

"I'm going to talk to Ed," Peter added. The door shut.

"You told them to leave, didn't you?" Hermione muttered without looking around.

"Well, yes. What did you expect?" She felt him slip an arm under her shoulders to pull her upright. "Now talk to me. Where did that come from? I thought we already had this conversation, poppet? I like your hair. And you don't have a flat chest -- which I got a good look at in the bath."

She felt her cheeks and ears flush.

"And you're definitely not ugly." This last was said very close to her left ear, which he then kissed.

She squirmed away, feeling insecure and thus unwilling to be wooed. "People wonder why you even look at me twice."

He pulled back to study her; she could feel his eyes but wouldn't meet them. "Somebody said something to you, didn't they? Out there? You were fine when you left. Now you're not."

"So what if someone did? People talk! I know they do! And I know what they say!" She felt entirely too close to tears or a fit of rage.

His eyes were narrow. "I can imagine," he replied, and he probably could. Cedric -- unlike Harry or Ron -- was far from naïve. "Who was it?"

"Does it matter?"

"Well, yes, it rather does."

"Millicent Bulstrode and Pansy Parkinson," she muttered, arms crossed like a petulant child.

"Those two?" He was practically laughing. "Good heavens, the hag and the pug -- they're not exactly beauty queens, are they? Well, to be fair, Pansy's not so bad, but anything they're accusing you of is because that's how _their _world works. Did that not occur to you?" Hermione looked around at him. It honestly hadn't. He looked . . . angry. "I don't gossip. But other people do and my ears work perfectly. Pansy Parkinson has no bloody business criticizing you for anything. And if she implied what I assume she implied, she _sure_ as hell has no room to talk. Understand?"

He held out his arm to her. "Come here." She hesitated, then practically flung herself against him. "Now, for the love of all that's holy, will you please stop worrying about whether you're pretty? You put me in a spot, you know? If I say you are, you don't believe me. If I say you're not, I'd be lying. You are pretty. But it's not why I'm with you, and the only people who'd think it was don't know us, do they? I'd like to think you're a little more attracted to my razor-sharp wit than my dashing good looks."

And she burst out laughing, rising up on her knees, hands on his shoulders to look into his face. He was smiling at her. She smiled back. "Definitely the wit. I knew I was in serious trouble with you the day I realized you not only _were_ clever, you weren't _afraid_ to be."

"What day was that?"

"The day you took me up to the gardens at St. Mungo's."

"It took you that long, did it?"

"Vain creature."

He leaned his head back slightly, eyes narrow as if considering. "I think I knew I was in trouble with you the day you came back."

"Came back from where?"

"The day you came back to see me in hospital when you didn't have to." He smiled faintly. "It meant a lot, Granger. You didn't even know me -- or barely. But you came back anyway."

She snuggled down against him again, running a hand over the front of his blue sweater. "That early?" She was astonished. "You knew that early? Really?"

She felt him kiss the top of her head. "Pretty much, yeah, looking back." The kiss turned to a smile. "Did my best to ignore it. But yeah, that early."

It was later as the train arrived at King's Cross and they were wishing friends a happy Christmas that what he'd said struck her. He'd fallen for her because she'd shown him a _kindness_, not because she was clever. Everyone knew she was clever, and no one called her pretty, or not often, but even Harry and Ron took what she _did_ for granted. Cedric hadn't. And for her, it hadn't been his face that she'd been drawn to; she'd been skeptical of attractive men since Professor Lockhart. Nor had it been his kindness. She admired that, to be sure, but among the first things one ever heard about Cedric Diggory was, "He's so _nice." _Yet he was also _clever_, and it was his intelligence that had enchanted her -- something the rest of _his_ friends took for granted. Wit wasn't an adjective most people used to define anybody from Hufflepuff. So he wasn't the 'nice boy' to her, and she wasn't the 'clever girl' to him. They saw each other beyond the easy clichés.

When she spotted Millicent and Pansy on the platform, she smiled at them, her arm around the waist of her clever boy. He noticed and looked around too, saw who she was watching and frowned. "Ignore them, Granger."

"They're not bothering me. Not now." And they weren't.

"Good." He pulled his chair out of his pocket and expanded it, then shrank their trunks to the size of normal suitcases and Levitated them onto a cart while she stacked Esiban's cage on top and forced a struggling Crookshanks into her bag. Professor McGonagall had managed to inform them before they'd left Hogwarts that Harry and the Weasleys had gone to Grimmauld Place, not the Burrow.

"I'm sorry," she told the cat, "But no taxi driver will let you run wild inside the cab."

"All right, Granger. I'm at your disposal. Now what?"

"Follow me," she said.

* * *

Cedric had seen cabs on the street, but had never ridden in one, much less one of the fancy black ones, but it was the only kind big enough for their luggage, pets and his chair, which he couldn't collapse fully in front of Muggles.

Grimmauld Place was less than a mile from the station, but even so short a walk was impossible for him with luggage -- just another example of how much extra trouble he caused now. Hermione didn't blink at arranging transportation for them, nor did the cabbie protest about such a short trip that it was hardly worth the fare. But that was the other side of being handicapped. People pitied him. He hated it even more than he hated that he genuinely needed help.

At the front door of number twelve, Grimmauld Place, Sirius let them in to the howls of Mrs. Black (obviously Cedric's mother hadn't been there recently), and both Ginny and Mrs. Weasley came hurrying out of the dining room.

"Maybe you can talk some sense into him," Ginny greeted Hermione.

"Who? Harry?"

"Yes, he's in another of his _moods_ and won't talk to me or Ron or even Sirius ever since he got back from St. Mungo's. He's been hiding up in the room with Buckbeak."

"I don't expect either of you ate anything decent on the train," Mrs. Weasley said as Cedric got out of his chair and back onto the crutches, relieved to be able to shrink and expand things normally. "Ginny, take some sandwiches up to Harry and Ron's room. Hermione, see if you can lure Harry out. Cedric, go ahead and Apparate upstairs; it'll be easier for you. I'll let your parents know you're here but you may as well stay the night. You can bunk with the twins; I'll find an extra mattress."

Cedric wasn't sure if he managed to keep the dismayed look off his face, but didn't think so as Ginny, at least, appeared amused. Before she followed her mother back into the kitchen, she whispered, "Banish your trunk to Harry and Ron's room. I'll tell mum to put you in there."

"Thank you," he said. Hermione had already disappeared up the stairs and he followed, apparating to the landing and then the second floor -- all line of sight as he'd prefer not to wind up in a cupboard or, worse, a wall. Ron was alone in the room when Cedric arrived, his face wearing that indistinct anxious expression of someone who'd been worried for days. "How's your dad?" he asked as Ron looked up.

"They still haven't found an antidote. There was something bloody nasty in that snake venom -- won't let the wound clot. He keeps bleeding." Ron's face was white. "Dad's trying to put a good face on it, but you know . . . " he trailed off, eyes dropping to Cedric's crutches. He didn't need to say that the Healers couldn't solve everything.

"I'm sorry, Ron. What really happened, do you know? McGonagall wouldn't tell us."

"Mum won't tell us, either -- it was some Order business, guarding something." Ron peered at Cedric. "I thought you were _in_ the Order?"

"On roughly the same terms as the twins. I don't know a lot more than you, and maybe less just now."

The door opened and Ginny entered with a tray of sandwiches and pitcher of pumpkin juice. She looked ready to fumble it all and Cedric Levitated it out of her hands. "Thanks," she said as he made a table walk closer to the bed to set down the tray and pitcher on it. Ron helped himself to the food and Cedric followed suit. He really was starving; the pasties had been several hours ago.

"Anyway," Ron said around a mouthful of egg salad, "we overheard some things when we were in St. Mungo's. Fred and George have these Extendable Ears -- let you hear in other rooms." Cedric's eyebrows shot up. "Pretty useful, but, well, Moody said something about Harry being possessed by You Know Who --"

"Possessed!"

"He's not possessed," Ginny said, impatient.

"Harry had this dream about dad being attacked, and he was _inside_ the snake. Seeing from inside the snake. Mum said that Dumbledore's worried about Harry."

Cedric would be too, but there was no more time to talk; Hermione had arrived with Harry. "We just got here," Hermione was saying. "McGonagall tried to tell us what happened the next day, but Umbridge was livid about the whole thing and wouldn't let her talk to us alone."

Harry appeared surprised to see Cedric, who asked him, "How are you?"

"Fine," Harry said sullenly as he sat by Ron and immediately grabbed a sandwich to shove in his mouth, as if that could prevent him from having to talk.

Hermione sat between Cedric and Ginny. "Oh, don't lie, Harry," Hermione was saying. "Ginny said you've been hiding from everybody since you got back from St. Mungo's."

"She has, has she?" Harry asked, glaring at Ginny, who appeared not the least concerned.

"Well, you have! And you won't look at any of us!"

"It's you lot who won't look at me!"

"Maybe you're taking it in turns to look and keep missing each other?" Hermione asked in her best attempt at deadpan.

"Very funny," Harry snarled.

"Oh, stop feeling all misunderstood -- " Hermione began but Cedric interrupted.

"Ron told me what you overheard from Moody the other night."

That only seemed to anger Harry more. "Yeah? All been talking about me, have you? Well, I'm getting used to it . . . "

Cedric made a disgusted noise, not inclined at the moment to feel much pity. "Cut it out, Potter."

"We wanted to talk to you, Harry," Ginny added, "but as you've been hiding ever since we got back --"

"I didn't want anybody to talk to me," Harry snapped.

"And then you _complain_ because no one talks to you?" Hermione said even as Ginny bent forward to snap, "Well, that was a bit stupid of you, seeing as you don't know anybody but me who's been possessed by You Know Who, and I can tell you how it feels."

That rebuke seemed finally to shock Harry out of his adolescent agonizing. "I forgot," he admitted.

"Lucky you," Ginny returned, voice chilly.

"I'm sorry," Harry said, sounding sincere. "So . . . so, do you think I'm being possessed then?"

"Well, can you remember everything you've been doing? Are there big blank periods where you don't know what you've been up to?" She sounded remarkably self-possessed, Cedric thought, for fourteen -- not unlike when she'd scolded him about Hermione earlier that year.

"No," Harry admitted now.

"Then You Know Who hasn't ever possessed you," Ginny told him. "When he did it to me, I couldn't remember what I'd been doing for hours at a time. I'd find myself somewhere and not know how I got there."

Cedric frowned -- there was more than one kind of possession -- but didn't point that out. At the moment, it seemed more important to get Harry past his paranoia. Cedric would talk to Harry later, or perhaps to Remus or his mother, to see if either of them would tell him more as he didn't think it quite so simple as Ginny had claimed. Neither, apparently, did Harry, who was saying, "That dream I had about your dad and the snake, though --"

"Harry," Hermione interrupted, "you've had these dreams before. You had flashes of what Voldemort was up to last year."

"You did?" Cedric asked, surprised.

They all looked at him and Harry shrugged. "Remember when we got to the graveyard? I said I'd been there before?" Cedric nodded. "I recognized it from a dream."

And Cedric remembered. Before Wormtail and Voldemort had shown up, Harry had told Cedric that he'd been there before in a dream. "You dreamed the graveyard?"

"Well, sort of -- not what happened, but the graveyard itself, yeah. That's how I knew it was a trap. But this the other night was different. I was inside the snake. It was like I _was_ the snake . . . What if Voldemort somehow transported me to London --"

Cedric was shaking his head even as Hermione said, "One day, you'll read _Hogwarts, A History_, and perhaps that will remind you that you can't Apparate or Disapparate inside Hogwarts. Even Voldemort couldn't just make you fly out of your dormitory, Harry."

"You didn't leave your bed, mate," Ron was saying. "I saw you thrashing around in your sleep about a minute before we could wake you up . . . "

"So it's not me, "Harry muttered, mostly to himself.

"It's not you what?" Ron asked.

Harry shook his head. "I was afraid maybe _I _was Voldemort's weapon."

Hermione smiled. "It's not you, Harry."

"But the dreams _are_ serious," Cedric told him. "Maybe you're not being possessed in the way Ginny was, but that doesn't mean they're not serious." The other three glared at him, but he ignored them to focus on Harry. "A person's ghost can walk in dreams," Cedric told him. "See things far away. But that can go both ways."

"You mean Voldemort could use me?" Harry was fingering his scar.

"Not like you're thinking. But you're obviously tied to him somehow. I'm not going to kid you -- that could be dangerous. If you have any more dreams -- anything at all that you think might come from Voldemort -- you've got to tell one of us. It's critical."

Harry just nodded. Later, before leaving for the room she would share with Ginny, Hermione pulled Cedric aside to demand, "Did you have to go and scare him again, Ced?"

"He needs to be scared a bit. There's such a thing as protecting him _too_ much, poppet."

And later yet, somewhere in the middle of the night, he felt somebody shaking his shoulder and turned over to find Harry sitting on the edge of the bed. As Ginny had promised, Mrs. Weasley had sent the mattress to Harry and Ron's room instead of to the twins', but Harry had insisted on taking it so Cedric could have the bed. "You're taller," was his excuse, but Cedric knew it was because getting in and out of the bed was easier for him. Now, Harry bent over to whisper, "Are you sure Voldemort couldn't possess me?"

Cedric sat up a little and glanced towards Ron, who was fast asleep and snoring. "Not like Ginny described, no, I don't think so. Or not without you knowing it. But Hermione told me later that you've sometimes felt what the Dark Lord feels?" Harry nodded. "Like I said, that could go both ways."

"You mean he could . . . read my mind? Like telepathy?"

"What's telepathy?"

Harry rubbed his scar again. "Never mind. You'd have to know science fiction."

Cedric grinned. "That's a Muggle thing, right? Space ships and ray guns?"

"Yeah," Harry said, "space ships and ray guns. Anyway, reading thoughts. He could do that?"

Cedric frowned. "It's not so simple. Usually, you have to be looking at somebody -- meeting their eyes. That's why this is so . . . odd -- if you can really know what Voldemort is feeling, or thinking, or even seeing at that distance? That's not usually how it works. And it's not like . . . reading a book. A Legilimens can only pick up what you're feeling or thinking right then."

"A Legilimens?"

"Someone who can look into minds -- Dumbledore is one. It's a special skill, like my ability to transform, or Sirius'. In fact, it's rather rare and very restricted. Not just anyone is permitted to learn Legilimency, even if he could."

"But Voldemort? He's one?"

"It's hard to know what he can still do, Harry. He's not what he was before, even now. You shouldn't over-worry it. Caution isn't the same thing as being paranoid, yeah?"

"Okay, yeah, I guess so. But if he could, you know, find out what I'm thinking -- how do I stop him?"

"I don't know. I'll see what I can find out. For now, I'd suggest trying to think of happy things before bed that'll just annoy Voldemort." He grinned and winked. "Cho, maybe?" Harry blushed furiously.

* * *

After that first night, Cedric came and went at Grimmauld Place. Able to Apparate, he slept at home, but showed up daily to visit. He brought things from his mother for Mrs. Weasley, who seemed to spend as much of her time at St. Mungo's as she could, and it reminded Hermione of Mrs. Weasley's concern over Mrs. Diggory the previous summer.

Even if Mrs. Weasley wasn't there to play chaperone, Hermione and Cedric were rarely alone. If they found a room empty for ten minutes, there was no guarantee it would stay that way and not necessarily by design. It was just the effect of a house full of people. But with the games and food and Sirius' good humor, Hermione didn't really mind. She didn't think Cedric did, either. Once or twice, he and Remus went into London somewhere by themselves and when she asked Cedric about it later, he said only, "There are . . . well, I can talk to Remus about some things."

"Order business?"

He shook his head. "No, not that. I'll tell you later." But he never did -- which, of course, made Hermione worry what exactly they were talking about.

When she cornered Remus to ask him, he laid a hand on her shoulder. "It's not about you, Hermione, or not for the most part. Cedric's just trying to sort out some things about his future."

"He could talk to me," she said.

"He could," Remus agreed. "Maybe he will eventually. Have patience." And smiling at her, he walked away. At first she was hurt that Cedric would talk to Remus rather than to her, but then she recognized that he needed to talk to somebody older who understood what it felt like to know one would never be 'normal' again.

A few days after they arrived, Tonks took off with Hermione when Ginny and the rest of the Weasleys were at St. Mungo's, Cedric was helping his dad at home, and Harry was spending the afternoon chatting with Sirius over tea in the kitchen. Tonks and Hermione went shopping, and Hermione used the opportunity to buy some more little presents for Cedric. She had a bag with quills and stationary, a small pillow to put behind his lower back because if he had to sit too long in a chair it hurt, and a cheap solar calculator that she'd found at the drugstore she'd made Tonks stop in on the way to Diagon Alley. "Why are you getting him that? What is it?" Tonks had asked.

"A calculator. He's terrible at numbers, and it's easier than a slide rule or abacus."

"It won't work at Hogwarts, will it?"

"Probably not, but he won't be there after this year and he needs it. Cedric and addition are passing acquaintances at best." That had made Tonks laugh.

Now, they were in Madam Malkin's because Tonks wanted new holly-green robes. "Are you nervous?" she asked.

"About what?"

Turning to her, Tonks grinned. "Staying at his house, silly. I heard you'll be there for Christmas."

Hermione shrugged. "A bit nervous, I suppose. I'll be 'the Girlfriend.' On my best behavior." Tonks was nodding as she inspected a pile of velveteen robes. "It won't be very relaxing."

Tonks grinned. "Lucy's already decided she likes you. Amos likes everyone -- well, unless you're competing against Cedric." That made Hermione giggle and study a table full of nice men's outer robes. Cedric had two sets of school robes and at least one plain black set. Around Grimmauld Place, he wore trousers and shirts and sometimes a pullover, and once even a blue waistcoat and old-fashioned cravat -- though she'd never seen him wear a hat when he didn't have to. He just wore raccoons and paper crowns and other silly things. Now her fingers paused over a robe of coffee twill with rich amber-brown velvet accents. It reminded her of his eagle feathers but when she looked at the price-tag she sighed and turned away. She supposed there was a reason wizards had only a few sets of full robes the same as Muggles kept only a few jackets. Tonks noticed what she was looking at. "They'd suit him," she agreed.

"I can't afford them."

"Maybe next year." She winked at Hermione.

"Do you think I might be with him next Christmas?" Hermione asked.

"I don't know. What do you think?"

"Sometimes I can't imagine not being. But then I consider how long that is from now, and he'll be out of school . . . If we were, I suppose it'd be pretty serious."

Tonks was nodding and asked without looking at her, "Is it serious?"

Hermione wasn't sure how to answer. Tonks' easy manner invited confidences, but she was still one of the adults. "I know we're young, and even if he'll be out of school soon, I have to finish myself. So we're not talking about eloping if that's what you're wondering."

Laughing, Tonks slipped an arm around Hermione's shoulders. "Oh, heavens, I didn't mean _that_! I just meant serious in a . . . physical way." Hermione blushed and Tonks gave her a knowing smile. "Should I teach you the proper spells?"

"No!" Hermione blurted. "I mean, it's not like that. Just kisses and . . . stuff. Cedric's very polite."

Tonks grew unexpectedly solemn and looked Hermione in the eye. "He's also eighteen, healthy, and not made of ice. Neither are you. When you need to know the spells, come to me. Molly's a dear but she's a bit old fashioned and seems to think not knowing the spells is some kind of deterrent. It's just likely to get you into trouble. I'm sure Cedric knows his, but better safe than sorry."

Too embarrassed to speak, Hermione just nodded.

It required the whole rest of the evening before her natural curiosity overcame her discomfort. After dinner, she pulled Tonks aside to ask, "Er, those spells? I don't . . . well, I don't need them _now_, but information is always a good thing, right?"

Grinning, Tonks took her off to the room she shared with Ginny and taught her what she needed to know.

On Christmas Eve morning, Cedric arrived with Mr. Diggory to take her to Devon. Mr. Diggory seemed as excited to have her visit as his son, who rolled his eyes at his father with a kind of long-suffering good humor. Hermione was starting to think Cedric spent a lot of his life apologizing for Amos. "We'll be apparating," Mr. Diggory told her, patting her arm. "Ced's going to take you; I'm just along to see to the luggage." He grinned. "You've Apparated before, have you?"

"Once, with Dumbledore."

"Good, good. Ced's been apparating a while. What with the Tournament and all, Dumbledore got him special dispensation to take his test early. Passed it on the first try, didn't you son?"

"Dad --"

Hermione resisted laughing and said goodbye to her friends. "We'll bring the turkey and pudding tomorrow, Molly," Mr. Diggory told Mrs. Weasley. "Don't you worry about a thing."

"Thank you, Amos, but you don't need to."

"Of course we need to. No trouble at all, so don't argue, my dear. You just relax and spend the time with Arthur -- no cooking -- and we'll see you tomorrow afternoon." He kissed her cheek.

And that, Hermione thought, was why people apologized for Amos Diggory when he acted ridiculous. Like his son, he had a big heart.

Outside on the walk, Cedric positioned his crutches and looked at her. "Put your arms around my waist and hold on _tight_." He glanced at his father, who nodded solemnly. Hermione suspected that Mr. Diggory was there to do more than just see to the luggage -- he was there in case something went wrong.

Moving in to embrace him, she shut her eyes, felt him step, twist and . . .

. . . she was being squeezed so hard she couldn't breathe or even think. Then with a pop, she was whole again. Letting him go, she ran hands over herself reflexively, and he laughed as another popping noise announced Mr. Diggory's arrival beside them, her trunk and cat in hand. "You know your cat's part kneazel?" Mr. Diggory asked, which made her smile.

"Yes, Cedric told me." She took Crookshanks from Mr. Diggory as he gestured behind her and turning, she saw, for the first time, the house Cedric had grown up in. It was . . . big. No mansion by any means, nor even a manor, but a two-storey, stone country house with an attic, a slate roof, and an adjacent building that must have been a carriage house once. As with the Burrow, no other houses were even visible in the distance and she wondered how much adjacent land the Diggorys owned -- she suspected quite a bit.

Cedric was grinning. "Come on," he told her and led her up the passage past winter dormant plants to the front door. There were steps there, but only three, and he managed them without too much trouble, gesturing the door open for her. She entered a gallery, long and narrow and full of windows that let in the winter sunlight. The house seemed very old.

Suddenly realizing Mr. Diggory wasn't behind them, she turned. "Where's your dad?"

"He sent your trunk up to a guest room, then probably went to check the crups in the barn. I'll show you later." He seemed suddenly a bit tongue-tied, as if not entirely sure what to say, but also silly-happy to have her there, grinning like a fool. "Wanna see my house?" Smiling back and feeling just as excited, she nodded.

They spent the rest of the morning walking about not just inside but out, as it was much warmer here than in Scotland, and no snow. He showed her his father's barn with the stalls converted into kennels, clean and well-kept. Mr. Diggory came back from walking some of the pups and explained to Hermione what he did there, taking abandoned crups, training them, and finding them homes. "It's like a Wizarding animal shelter," Hermione said.

"Perhaps." He smiled. "There was nothing like this when I started at the Ministry. Abandoned crups were just passed off to anybody who'd take them, or put down. So I started with just puppies, then I converted the barn and now I take as many as I can. Some still have to be put down -- I won't send a crup to a home if it doesn't pass tests for food aggressiveness and the like. Don't want my crups biting anyone. But I try to make sure the family taking them is responsible and clean, and I offer Ministry-sponsored training classes and the like."

Mr. Diggory went on talking for a while then. It was clear he _knew_ animals, and cared about them passionately -- as passionately as Mrs. Diggory cared about her painting. When it came to his area of expertise, he didn't seem ridiculous at all, and reminded her of Hagrid, or Charlie and his dragons. "Your parents are quite something," she said to Cedric as they headed out of the barn. "Your mum and her art, your dad and his rescue program."

He shrugged. "Yeah, they are. Makes me feel a bit inadequate, actually."

"What? _Why?_"

"I don't have any passions like that, Granger. Well, not counting you." That made her blush. "But otherwise? My mother's wanted to be a painter all her life. It's why she rebelled against her family in the first place. And dad . . . he's got this rapport with animals. He loves them and they love him. I think, in a weird way, that's why I took Esiban. I just . . . I thought maybe I could be like my dad, that I had some kind of . . . connection with Esiban that made him choose my bed to sleep on."

Hermione stopped walking. They stood on a paved stone pathway through what, in greener seasons, would be a garden. "You do have a connection with him, Cedric. He _adores_ you."

"Maybe." He looked away. "But at first, he was just a wild raccoon. I stole him. It was wrong."

"I thought you said he was the last of his litter?" Cedric nodded absently. "Then he might have _died_ without you."

"Still didn't give me the right to take a wild animal and turn him into a pet. My dad was pretty angry with me. He's the one who helped me research how to take care of him, and helped me train him."

"Well, he follows _you_ around now, not your dad. He loves _you_. As for passions -- I thought you wanted to be an ambassador?"

He blushed. "I did -- do. But a person doesn't start out there, you know ." He looked at her from under lashes. "And after this year, I've been rethinking things." He frowned. "Can I work for the Ministry after all they've done? Assuming they'd even consider hiring me while Fudge is in charge." His expression was troubled. "I used to think I knew what I'd do when I finished Hogwarts, but I don't know anymore. I just don't know. Remus says I'm hardly the first seventh year to feel completely up in the air about the future."

"There's no reason you have to make up your mind immediately."

"I realize that, I just . . . it's unsettling. And with Voldemort back, _everything's_ uncertain. He's not going to stay in hiding forever, then we'll be in the middle of another war. It makes thinking about my career seem a bit, I don't know, petty."

"Not petty." She slipped her fingers into the belt loop of his trousers. "And I don't see any reason not to think about the future. Even if you don't know what you're going to do in six months, what about in six years? Or sixteen? Ever since I've known you, you've talked about being a bridge between people, Cedric. There's no reason to give that up just because Fudge is in office right now."

He snorted. "You sound like Remus."

"Then maybe you should listen to us."

The rest of the day passed pleasantly, if in less serious conversation. Hermione kept hoping to get a glimpse of the Diggory house-elf, but she stayed frustratingly out of sight, and Hermione didn't want to ask about her on the first day. There would be time. Towards evening, he Apparated with her up to the attic room that had once been his. "I miss it," he told her, staring out one of the dormer windows that overlooked the backyard. Esiban was awake now and riding on his shoulder.

"Why couldn't you stay up here?" Hermione asked. "God knows, the twins Apparate all over the house rather than just _walk_."

"I suppose I could, but keeping this room wouldn't be very convenient. There are just some things I can't do anymore. I have to face that."

She wondered how much was facing what he couldn't do and how much was some bizarre and bitter self-punishment. Moving up behind him, she wrapped arms around his chest. He turned, and they were kissing -- heated too, not gentle, as if he wanted to burn out his frustrations. The raccoon had leapt down with a scolding chitter that made them laugh briefly. Then Cedric was maneuvering her over to an old-fashioned couch along one slanted wall even while still kissing her. It was quite awkward with her walking backwards and him on crutches, but at the moment, she wasn't really thinking about how it looked. The sun was sinking outside and the room was growing dim, and he had her on the couch with no one around and no real danger of them being walked in on. She wasn't sure how far she wanted this to go; she'd been thinking a lot lately about that, but the weight of him on her as they half-sat, half-lay there was making it difficult to be rational.

He dropped his crutches to the floor with a solid thunk, freeing both his hands, one to support himself and the other to run through her hair spread out on the throw beneath her. She had one leg drawn up against the couch back while the other dangled off the edge and he sat between, pushing her down. The edge of his hip was pressing into her crotch and it felt entirely too good. She wanted to rub against him like a cat in heat and could feel her knickers growing damp. He moved his mouth to lick along her jaw and she made an embarrassing noise that sounded like a whimper, her hands busy bunching up his sweater and untucking his shirt to get to the bare skin of his back beneath. When she succeeded, he hissed in breath. "Your hands are cold!"

"Sorry." But she couldn't help laughing a little. "You look uncomfortable, twisted like that."

"Not really. Am I crushing you?"

"Not really," she echoed, although he was, and she suspected he was uncomfortable, whatever he'd said. "How soon until dinner?"

"We eat late." His mouth was back on her neck and jaw and she raised her chin, but wondered if she shouldn't stop him. She didn't really want to. They'd been so good, so proper. Yet Tonks was right; they weren't made of ice. Right now, she felt hot and bothered despite the chill December day, and she wanted to haul him up on top of her, cradle him between her legs. His rubbing against her felt splendid even if he was heavy, and she moved hands from his shirt to his hips, tugging. "What?" he whispered.

"Get up here."

"_What?_"

"Get _up_ here." And she shifted a little, trying to nudge his legs with the one of hers not trapped against the back of the couch. It seemed to dawn on him then what she was suggesting as he lifted his head to look at her. She just looked back steadily. The room was almost entirely dark now and Esiban had disappeared back down the stairs. With a lift of his hand he shut the door and shifted his weight. It wasn't, she realized, so easy for him. He had to haul his legs up physically, but she shifted her own hips, raising her knees to cradle him as he lowered himself on top of her, his crotch pressed into hers until she could feel his erection.

"Are you sure about this?" he whispered.

"Yes," she replied softly, stroking his hair in the dark. It was awkward, the couch almost too narrow, and he was heavy lying on her but she wanted this. Pulling his head down, she kissed him with soft lips, not so hard and hungry, and stroked her tongue against his. She could feel him practically shuddering and arched her hips up. He pressed back.

"Hermione --" he said softly.

"Yes," she said again, unsure if she were answering her name or restating her previous answer. "Yes." Almost without thinking, the movement of their hips had turned into a steady rocking and she shifted a little so his erection pushed the seam of her jeans against her crotch. So good . . . She rocked harder and whispered for a third time, "Yes."

He'd raised himself on both elbows and dropped his forehead against hers, breathing heavily through his mouth in little pants that kept rhythm with the rocking. Her hands went from his hips back to his skin beneath the half-untucked shirt, stroking. He didn't complain now that they were cold. Her whole body burned and she lifted her legs, wrapping them around the back of his. He grunted and rocked harder. The pressure between her legs was increasing but still felt generalized. He kissed her again, licking at her mouth, her teeth, sucking her lips, pressing the tip of his tongue to hers. She liked that -- a lot -- and did it back until he was moaning into her mouth. The cushion squeaked beneath them and it suddenly occurred to her that this must be what they called 'frottage.' Such a silly name, it made her giggle.

"What?" he asked, voice husky and cracking.

"Nothing," she whispered back. "Stupid stray thought."

But speech had brought him back to himself a little and his rocking had slowed. "We should stop," he said. "We should stop right now."

He wasn't stopping though, and she smiled against his neck. "Do you want to stop? I don't want to stop."

"Granger -- Hermione. I've got to stop or I'm not going to be able to."

"Then don't." Her legs clutched his hips tighter.

"You don't understand," he groaned. She was sucking at his neck. "If I don't stop --"

He didn't finish but she could guess what he was trying to say. "It's okay," she told him. "Can we keep doing this? Just this?"

"I'm going to come in my pants," he finally managed to get out, sounding as embarrassed as he was aroused.

"Then you'll have to clean up afterwards won't you?" she replied. "My knickers are a mess as well."

He spit laughter, but it still sounded breathless. "You're sure?"

"I already said 'yes.'"

He went back to rocking, not so aimlessly this time but with more force -- less like rocking and more like thrusts. She made hissing noises and he was panting. She'd pulled all of his shirt out of his trousers now and her hands moved around from his back to what of his chest she could reach as he held himself above her. She kept her eyes closed, trying to hang onto the burst of pleasure every time his erection hit her crotch just right. She was spiraling up, up, straining for something. Was this what a Seeker felt, reaching for the Snitch? Then he let out a guttural moan and she snapped her eyes open. His chin was raised, showing the whole expanse of white throat, his teeth gritted, his own eyes squeezed shut. His movements had become jerky, not rhythmic, and he looked in pain. She wondered if she were hurting him, only recognizing that he'd climaxed when he dropped his forehead to her shoulder, sagging down atop her and trapping her hands between them. She pulled them free to wrap them around his body.

He was breathing heavily and seemed utterly relaxed, clearly finished. She was . . . well, frustrated. She hadn't been ready for it to be over and when she wiggled against him, it still shot electric pleasure all through her lap. She didn't want to ask him to do anything else -- wasn't sure she was ready to be so forward -- but all her nerves felt stretched, humming. She twitched up against him again. Even that little bit of pressure felt good.

He was kissing her neck -- but gently, and he seemed very cuddly now, nuzzling and humming softly in the back of his throat. Shifting so his weight was off her, he slid one arm beneath her neck, the other around her waist, tucking her against his chest where they lay side by side. She wanted to grit her teeth because she really hadn't wanted him to move yet and she wondered if she could press her thighs together to get the sweet pressure in the right place again.

He seemed to be surfacing from his sex fog and leaned on his elbow to look down at her. His hair was a complete mess, or what of it she could see. With the sun set, the whole room was dark, only a little light from the moon falling in the dormer windows. He stroked her hair and kissed her brow but didn't speak. She pressed her own face into his chest, clutching at him and sliding down a little so her crotch was against his leg. It felt a bit slutty, but she just wanted some relief. He must have figured out she wasn't done because he rolled her onto her back, bent to kiss her mouth and moved his hand across her tummy, then -- slowly so she could stop him -- down between her legs atop her jeans. He pressed the heel of it right where she wanted pressure most.

With a cry, she arched up against his palm. She probably shouldn't be letting him do this, probably should move the hand -- it felt more intimate -- but she hung too close to the edge. He kept kissing her and rubbing with his palm in a circular motion. She was practically mewling, and he moved his mouth down over her chin to her neck and then her collarbone, across her upper chest atop her pullover until he'd reached her breast. Taking the nipple in his mouth, he gave her stars even through three layers of cloth. It was what she'd needed and she squealed, legs crossing to trap his hand between them, chest pressing up against his mouth. The pleasure shivered over and through her, then she pushed his head away because her breast was suddenly ticklish and too sensitive, and unwrapped her legs to free his hand. Burying her face in his chest, she felt mortified as much as relieved.

Chuckling and unaware, he stroked her hair and back. "That better, Granger?"

Unsure what to say, she said nothing, just curled one arm around him. The other was trapped beneath her. She seemed all of a sudden to have too many limbs and couldn't bring herself to look at him. Now that the blood-rush was past, she couldn't believe what they'd just done. Clothes on or not, hadn't that amounted to sex? What would he think of her now?

She felt his fingers against her chin. "Look at me, Hermione."

She raised her face. His was concerned. He didn't need to ask any questions -- they were obvious -- and she didn't know how to reply. So she asked a question of her own -- "Do you love me?" -- and felt stupid and desperate in the asking.

"_Yes,_" he hissed, pushing her onto her back again to kiss her almost frantically on mouth and cheeks and chin and eyelids. "Yes, I love you. Do you love me?" He sounded perhaps as uncertain as she was, and maybe boys could wonder too, after that manner of intimacy.

"Oh, _yes_," she answered, arms wrapping around his shoulders. "Yes, I love you. Pretty hopelessly, you know." She felt him smile against her cheek, then his urgency disappeared and he sagged against her for a second time, face buried in her neck. "Can you _breathe_ like that?" she asked.

"Uh-huh," she felt-heard him mutter against her skin. "Barely." It made her laugh at the honesty. "We went too far," he said then.

"Maybe we did," she replied, threading fingers through his hair. It was soft and fine. "But, well, it's done."

"I should have stopped. I knew I should have stopped."

"I told you not to. And I didn't want you to. I didn't, but . . . " She trailed off again. He didn't speak as if waiting to see if she'd say more. Finally she screwed up her courage to mutter, "I'm sorry. Please don't think badly of me."

His head came up so fast it startled her. Even in the dark she could see he was frowning. "Why on earth would I think badly of you? I'm a little more inclined to think badly of _me_."

Unable to meet his eyes, she frowned at his chin instead. She didn't know how to explain; the words lay trapped behind her teeth. He waited her out. He had the annoying habit of being able to do that -- let the weight of his silence make her speak. "I wanted you," she said finally. "I love you and I wanted you -- I _wanted_ to do what we did. I want to do more too, but maybe not just yet. I'm confused, I'm sorry." She felt close to crying all of a sudden. "I'm a good girl, Cedric. I don't want you to think badly of me." And why did she keep saying that? Hadn't her mother told her that between two people who really loved each other, sex was all right -- was good? It had certainly _felt _good -- felt even better with him than it did when she was by herself. But then why feel so _guilty_?

"Hermione," he whispered, "Hermione . . . I wouldn't ever think badly of you. Honestly. Ah!" He suddenly sagged against the couch's low back and slapped a hand over his face. "Did it not occur to you that I might _like_ to be wanted? That it's a relief not to think I'm . . . _shoving_ all this on you? Why are girls so -- !" He cut off and made the same frustrated noise in his throat. "Ah!"

She almost laughed because he sounded just like she did sometimes about Harry and Ron. And of course he had a point; this was hardly a first date. "I'm sorry for being so silly."

"Stop _apologizing_." But then he cut off as if unsure what to say next.

She didn't know either, and her knickers were sticky, her hair messy, and she was tired -- thoroughly uncomfortable and soured by shame. He seemed just as rumpled and confused, and it wasn't quite the ending their first time should have had. She didn't know how to fix it. "I love you," she said because it was all she could think of to say.

He dropped his hand from his face and leaned in to look at her, ran the knuckles of his free hand down her cheek. "Where do you want to go from here?" he asked her.

She blinked. "What do you mean?"

"I mean do you want to back up? Do you want to do this again? What do you want to do? I don't know anymore, Granger."

She stroked his cheek as well, touched by the honesty of his own uncertainty. "It seems silly to back up. I think I was ready, just, well, not sure I was ready to be ready?" And she giggled. "That made absolutely no sense, did it?"

He smiled. "Maybe more than you think. I've wanted you and been afraid to want you, afraid you'd think I was some sex-crazed idiot . . . You've had me so wound up, I didn't know if I was coming or going."

The knots inside her came undone and she moved her hand from his cheek to the back of his neck, understanding now what he'd meant when he'd said it was a relief to be wanted in return. It wasn't just her. He loved her and he wanted her; she made him as crazy as he made her. Pulling his head down, she spoke against his mouth. "I want to do this again." She kissed him softly. "Next time, I'll try to avoid going spare afterwards."

It made him laugh against her mouth.

* * *

**  
Note:** The timing here is slightly different from that in Book 5 where Hermione arrived at Grimmauld Place only a day or two after the Weasleys; here, it's three. And I realize I've introduced the idea of Legilimency earlier than it was introduced in the book, but throwing Cedric into the mix changes dynamics a bit.

**REVIEWS ARE LOVE! Remember to feed the writer! Thanks!**


	22. Pearls

Love, Cedric thought, was a sweet kind of drowning, and he never wanted to breathe.

His current state of bliss wasn't the result of sexual release -- or not that entirely. He'd be lying if he said what they'd shared in the attic hadn't affected him.

No, his mood that Christmas Eve night rested on a sudden alchemy of _everything_ -- her laugh, the way the lamp above the dining table caught her brown hair, the blush in her cheeks, the softness of her hand, the way her brow furrowed when she was thinking, the lilt of her voice as she replied to something his father or mother asked her. It was how she could make him smile, make him think, then make him want her so badly he couldn't think at all. She engaged everything in him -- body, mind, and soul.

She looked over at him at one point during the pudding, grinned and kicked playfully at him under the table. Unable to kick back (the braces might bruise), he stole her spoon. So she stole his and, pleased with herself, wrinkled her nose at him.

His father burst out laughing, reminding him that the rest of the world did exist. "Come on, Lucy," he said. "Two's company, four's a crowd. Let's leave the love birds to the dessert."

His mother rolled her eyes, but with amused fondness. Hermione was blushing. "Sorry," Cedric muttered, but his father only laughed again and waved it off as he escorted Cedric's mother from the dining room. Cedric had never asked to bring home a girl before, much less bring her at Christmas, and both his parents had been -- in their own ways -- disturbingly _enthusiastic_ about it.

"I hear she's got quite a reputation," his father had told him. "Cleverest witch at Hogwarts. You need a girl who can keep up with you, son."

"She's very sensible, Cedric," his mother had said -- which had made him want to ask if she thought he _wasn't_ sensible. "She'll take good care of you."

Once both parents were gone, he leaned over to grip her hand where she was seated across from him. "Stay for the rest of holidays," he urged.

She blinked. "You mean here? Stay here?"

"Yes."

"But your parents . . . it was only for a few days . . . "

"My father suggested it," he told her, grinning. "I wanted to wait -- be sure you were comfortable first." Then he sobered. "I'm not ready to give you back. Harry has Ron, and the Weasleys. Stay with me." She appeared uncertain, pushing the raisins in her rice pudding around her bowl. "We can go to visit Grimmauld Place, the same as I did when you were there."

She looked up at him, and her dark eyes were warm. "All right. As long as your parents don't mind." She pushed around more raisins. "I admit, I wasn't looking forward to leaving you to go back."

He felt as if his smile might split his face. "Then it's decided. You stay."

She was smiling too, almost bashfully, and her fingers twined into his on the tabletop. A little noise from the direction of the kitchen caused them both to look around.

Strawberry was lurking there, peering around the edge of the doorway, a funny little smile on her face. "Oh!" Hermione said even as Berry's mouth dropped open at having been discovered, and she darted back out of sight. Cedric felt his insides clench. He'd thought about this only in passing, and didn't want to get into house-elves with Hermione right now and spoil his mood. "Hullo!' Hermione called out, then turned to him. "Why did she run away?"

He shrugged with one shoulder. "She's shy. House-elves don't really much want to be seen."

"But why?"

"I don't know, Granger. They just . . . don't. Not by strangers. Not even by us sometimes."

"But why?"

"I _don't know,_" he said, frustrated. "They just don't. It's their way."

"Would you, um, call her back? Could I say 'hullo' to her? Did she make the dinner?"

"Yes, she made dinner . . . " he trailed off to look her in the eye. "You're not going to scare her and offer her clothes or something, are you? You'll insult her."

She sat back, her expression darkening. "I don't see how _freedom_ could possibly be insulting --"

"Granger --"

"All right! Fine. I won't say anything to her about clothes. I'd just like to, well, thank her for dinner."

Cedric nodded. "All right." Turning his head and still feeling a bit uncertain, he called out, "Berry?"

Five long breaths passed before her little face, framed by bat ears, appeared around the door again. "Sorry, Master Cedric. I's didn't meant t'be eavesdropping. You's just so _sweet_."

Blushing, he gestured her forward. "I'm not angry with you. Come here, I want you to meet her." And head down, Berry inched into the room. "No, come closer. Really, it's all right."

Berry did so, finally getting a few feet from Hermione to look up at her with great pink, lamp-like eyes. "Strawberry, this is Hermione Granger. Hermione, this is Strawberry -- we call her Berry."

"Hullo," Hermione said, grinning enthusiastically and offering a hand. "I'm so pleased to meet you."

Berry glanced at Cedric, who nodded, so she took Hermione's hand but instead of shaking it, made a curtsy. "Miss Pretty-Hermione. Master Cedric talks about you lots, he does, he so fancies you."

And that wasn't what Cedric had hoped she'd say. He wanted to sink under the table, but Hermione just grinned wider and glanced at him. "I wanted to thank you for dinner. It was delicious."

Berry fluttered fingers. "Nothing but delicious for my Family. Berry feeds them well, she does. Make Master Cedric big and strong."

"Make Master Cedric big and _fat_, more like," he said.

Berry turned to look at him, chin down, hands on hips, scolding, "Master Cedric doesn't eat enough. Growing boys, they needs lots of food, they does." And she came over to inspect his plate.

He tilted it up. "See? All clean."

"Good boy." She patted his arm, then seemed to remember the company and grew shy again, backing up and plucking at the tea towel she wore that featured strawberries. "Must be going. Dishes to do. So nice, Miss Pretty-Hermione." And she ducked out again.

Hermione appeared bemused, smiling faintly, but with brows drawn together. "She's fond of you."

"Yes. She took care of me when I was growing up. I'm fond of her."

Hermione appeared to chew that over along with a mouthful of pudding. "She scolded you."

He grinned. "She does that if she doesn't think I'm eating enough. Then again, from her perspective, I'd have to be as big as a house before she'd be convinced I was eating enough."

Hermione still seemed thoughtful and he half-wondered, half-feared what she might say next, but before she could, Esiban scuttled into the dining room, sat up on hind legs and looked at Cedric, who had to laugh. "All right, come on then. It's Christmas Eve, I suppose you can have some green beans." And he scooped some onto his empty plate to set it down on the floor. There were mushrooms and almonds in it too, and Esiban chittered in delight.

"You made his night," Hermione said.

"Oh, he's getting a whole bag of Every Flavor Beans tomorrow. He'll be in raccoon heaven."

"He'll be a very sick raccoon, that's what he'll be if he eats them all at once."

"Especially if he gets a vomit-flavored one."

"Oh, Cedric, ick!"

He just laughed at her. "Ready to go and eat chestnuts?"

Her eyes got big, and she actually clapped her hands together in delight. "You roast chestnuts? Oh, I love roasted chestnuts!"

"Dad always gets some for the fire. Let's go."

So they ate chestnuts and he had to split them for her because she wasn't allowed to use magic. She grinned and burned her fingers on them while his father sang carols as off pitch as Cedric would have, but with a good deal less self-consciousness. His mother and Hermione both put hands over their ears, and Esiban sneaked in to steal hot chestnuts until Hermione took him to Cedric's room. Her cat watched it all in dignified disdain from a top bookshelf. Cedric couldn't remember a Christmas Eve he'd been this happy (and he'd been happy for most of them). When eleven rolled around, his father said, "You should go to bed, kids."

So they did. He was tired, and his legs were hurting him a bit -- all that walking earlier, and here, there was no huge, hot bath to relax in. Hermione kissed him good night outside his bedroom. "Bring your pillowcase down tomorrow morning?" he asked her. "I'll wait for you before starting on presents." She nodded and headed up the stairs, and he went in to bed.

Morning came before he knew it and a small hand was shaking his shoulder. "Happy Christmas." Bleary from Abdoleo, he opened his eyes and blinked up at her. Grinning and dressed in pink flannel pyjamas and a dressing gown, she plopped down on the edge of his bed, her pillowcase of presents in hand.

He smiled back and scrubbed at his face, but his mouth felt stuffed with cotton and he needed to piss. Pointing to the door, he said, "Toilet," and reached for the braces, putting them on under his pyjama bottoms. She bent to help but he pushed her hands away. "No. No." He couldn't explain why, but he didn't want anybody to do this but him, didn't want anybody touching his legs like that. It seemed to symbolize his whole crippling and he'd be more willing to strip nude in front of her than let her put his braces on him. "Be back in a minute."

When he returned, he found Hermione settled cross-legged in the middle of his double bed, her presents piled beside his. Sitting back down, he debated a moment, then took the braces off. They were heavy and awkward. She shoved a big package at him. "That's from me."

Propping himself against the headboard with a pillow, he said, "Let me guess -- a book?"

Rolling eyes, she blushed and he laughed.

They opened presents, winding up surrounded by a sea of bright paper and ribbon. Crookshanks wasn't there, but Esiban scuttled about beneath, crinkling paper as he chased the beans Cedric tossed him. When they were done, Hermione was frowning a bit, and he watched her check her pillowcase surreptitiously. She knew she hadn't opened anything from him -- presents from her parents, Harry and Ron, Tonks and Ginny, Sirius and Remus, a pullover from Mr. and Mrs. Weasley, and even something from his own parents -- but nothing from him. Reaching under the pillow he hadn't slept on, he pulled out the long, flat box he'd hid there and set it in front of her. "Looking for that, poppet?"

"What?" She blushed. "Well, I wasn't --"

"Yes, you were." He grinned. "Go ahead. Open it."

He hadn't spelled it to appear among her presents because he'd wanted to give it to her when no one else was there to see. Silly, perhaps, but he didn't want to share with anybody the look on her face when she opened it. She pulled the ribbon off. "Let me guess -- it's either jewelry or a bookmark, or a new wand. But as I don't think you'd be getting me a wand without me present, I think I can eliminate that."

He slapped a hand over his heart. "You think I'd get you just a bookmark? I'm wounded."

"A _fancy_ bookmark?"

He just watched. She had the ribbons off and now was tearing through the paper, but hesitated over the brown velvet box itself. Then she flipped it open.

Her mouth dropped in shock, and delighted, he grinned. "Oh, my God, oh, my God," she said, setting down the box as if to leap at him, then picking it up again to stare, then putting it down once more. That time, she _did_ leap at him, practically strangling him. "You idiot!" she scolded.

"Gee, thanks, Granger. You don't like them?"

"You idiot!" she said again, but she was laughing now. "_Please_ tell me these aren't real. _Please_ tell me these are just really good fakes."

"What? You think I wouldn't give you the real thing?"

"Cedric! You idiot!"

"Can't you call me something else? A little variety in the vocabulary?" But he couldn't stop smiling any more than she could stop babbling.

"My foolish, hopeless romantic is what you are!" Letting him go, she sat back to pick up the box again, unhooking the strand from its ties. Then she held it up to see it glow in morning sunlight. "_Pearls. _Pink pearls."

"_Rose_ pearls. You told me your favorite color is rose."

"Dusty rose." Her whole face was alight and she held them out to him, then turned. "Put them on me?" Seated this time, he could do so, slipping them around her pretty neck and hooking the clasp. "Do you have any idea how much I love pearls?"

"Actually, no. I just . . it seemed like they'd suit you. You should be covered in pearls, poppet."

Turning, she accosted him again, arms tight around him, laughing into his neck. "I love them. They're beautiful. And I'm going to kill you. This is just . . . gah!" Letting him go, she sat back, her fingers straying up to touch them. It wasn't a long strand, but long enough to lay beside her locket without appearing odd. "Cedric -- this is . . . " she trailed off. "You gave me _pearls_."

"Yes, it looks that way." He really was quite enjoying having managed to flabbergast her.

Head tilted, she appeared distressed again. "Real pearls . . . Cedric -- it's too much. You have to take them back. I can't let you buy me real pearls."

He shook his head. "Granger, relax. They're not from the South Sea, they're just cultured pearls. But they are real. I wouldn't get you fakes, even good ones; you're not a fakes sort of girl."

Her eyes seemed suspiciously damp and she was still fingering them, then she was hugging him yet again, her face buried in his shoulder. "You may be an idiot, but you're my idiot."

"I'll consider myself claimed."

* * *

When they arrived at Grimmauld Place, only Sirius was there, restless at being left behind and sharp with it. Hermione worried about him. "I know he has to stay hidden here," she told Cedric. "But I'm afraid he's going to do something drastic, you know?"

"Yeah," Cedric agreed.

"Why doesn't Dumbledore find something more for him to do?"

"Like what? He can't go out; somebody might spot and arrest him. And he's contributing something extremely important with the house itself. I know it probably doesn't feel like much, but having an unplottable headquarters like this is invaluable."

They'd helped carry things into the kitchen, her by hand and Cedric by Levitation. Then Strawberry shooed them out. When Mr. Diggory had said they'd provide Christmas dinner, he hadn't meant just the food. Hermione had gathered that Mrs. Diggory didn't cook, so the Diggorys had brought their elf who made herself right at home in Sirius' kitchen. There was, apparently, a brief altercation with Kreacher, but Berry came out the victor and Kreacher slunk off upstairs. Hermione wondered at the protocol of bringing an 'invading' elf into Kreacher's house, but she also realized Kreacher wasn't about to cook -- and if he did, he might poison them all.

With nothing to do but await the Weasleys' return and avoid a temperamental Sirius, Hermione asked Cedric, "Do you think it'd be all right if we left for a bit so I could call my parents? I just need to find a payphone."

"You shouldn't go alone," he said, frowning, "you're not Harry, but I don't want you out there alone, and I don't think I can escort you far. I'll talk to my parents."

Mrs. Diggory was busy with the painting of Mrs. Black, spelling it quiet again, but Mr. Diggory was willing to take her. "She's going to talk on a telephone?" he asked, "To someone all the way over on the Continent? Not by floo?"

"The Grangers aren't where she can reach them by floo," Cedric explained.

Hermione didn't add that she still found the idea of disembodied talking heads a bit disconcerting.

"Well, let's go then," Mr. Diggory told her. "Don't know when Molly and the kids'll be back and don't want them to have to wait lunch on us. Where can we find one of these telephones?"

Cedric stayed behind in the house and Hermione glanced over her shoulder at him where he watched from the doorway as she departed with his father. "Maybe I should have waited for Tonks."

"Nonsense," Mr. Diggory replied. "I'm sure your mum and dad are anxious to hear from you."

"I mean he looks so forlorn. I didn't even think that he couldn't just go out with me to find a phone."

Mr. Diggory set a hand on her shoulder and patted it. He, too, appeared troubled. It must be hard, she thought, to see his son trapped by crutches or the chair. After a moment, he withdrew the hand and said, "He'd want you to talk to your parents."

"But I worry about him --"

"Now you listen," Mr. Diggory said, voice a bit sharp, "my son's a strong person. He doesn't need or want pity."

She might have been offended, but found herself smiling instead. "I know. I didn't mean it that way. I just meant I didn't think before bringing it up. He is strong, but he still has feelings."

He squeezed her shoulder but didn't reply.

Her parents seemed a bit surprised to hear from her by Muggle means, but delighted. And they had a surprise for her, in turn. "We're returning early," her mother said. "Maybe you can come down for New Year's Day, at least? We'll get you a train ticket from Edinburgh since your Wizard train doesn't run all the time."

Startled, she hastened to say, "No, mum, that's all right. I mean, I didn't know you were coming back. Maybe I could, er, stay in Devon and return to London from there." She winced, hoping her mother couldn't overhear the London street traffic.

"I thought you were worried about studying?"

"I am, but there's not much sense in me going back to Hogwarts for a few days, then turning around to come south again. I did get in some extra reading . . . "

"We'll be back on the 30th. We could meet you at the station -- "

"Don't worry, mum. I can have someone Apparate me there. It's not so far. Cedric could do it." She hesitated. "Maybe he could, well, stay for dinner afterwards?"

There was a hesitation and Hermione imagined her mother putting a hand over the receiver to speak to her father, then she was back. "Having him to dinner would be wonderful. We'd like to meet this boy."

"I'll talk to him." They chatted a bit longer and Hermione hung up. She wasn't sure what she thought of them coming home early. She'd expected to have the entire holiday with Cedric, but had to admit she also wanted to introduce him to her parents.

When she and Mr. Diggory got back to the house, the Weasleys had returned and Harry and Ron pulled her aside. "Guess who we saw at St. Mungo's?" Ron said. "Neville."

"Neville? What was he doing there?"

So they told her about running into Professor Lockhart, then seeing Neville and his grandmother, and what his grandmother had said about Neville's parents and how they'd been injured. Hermione put her hands over her mouth in horror. "That's terrible! Poor Neville! I'm sure he didn't say anything because he didn't want to be pitied. Did you tell Cedric?"

The two of them exchanged a glance then Harry said, "Yes, we told him."

"Is he the first person you think about now?" Ron asked, a bit sourly.

Hermione was taken aback. "Well, he wasn't there either and I just thought --"

"You spend all your time with him, go and see him for Christmas -- it's like we don't count anymore!" Ron interrupted.

Harry was frowning but he didn't, Hermione noticed, correct Ron. And that irritated her. "How often do the two of you go off to do something without _me_? Did either of you even _think_ to call for me when Harry had his dream? No, you didn't, did you? I had to find out the next day from Neville."

"Well, Hermione," Ron protested, "you're a girl. You weren't in our dorm, then McGonagall took us to see Dumbledore and Dumbledore sent us off here, and --"

"You didn't even leave me a note!"

"We didn't have time!" Harry protested. "Things were in a bit of an uproar."

She knew it was true, and she shouldn't feel so hurt, but it was axiomatic of what she'd grown so used to that she'd barely even noticed until Cedric. "You have each other. I always come second. Maybe I like being first for someone." And she stalked off to find the one she came first for, snuggling her way against his side where he stood in the drawing room, talking to Remus and Sirius.

Sensing her bad mood, he nodded to the other two and drew her away. "What is it, poppet?"

"Just Harry and Ron. They're acting stupid and jealous. But they never think of _me_ except when they realize they're not the sum-total of my life!"

Obviously bemused, he tilted her chin up so he could look her in the eye. "They care about you."

"Only when they _want _something." She felt close to tears all of a sudden.

"That's not true, poppet. When I started seeing you, Harry had a little 'talk' with me. He wanted to be sure I'd treat you well."

"What? What gives him the right -- ?"

"He thinks of you like his sister. And if I hurt you, trust me, I'd have not just Harry but a whole pack of Weasleys after me." He was grinning. "They consider you theirs."

Hermione felt both touched and annoyed. Didn't they trust her to make a wise choice in a boyfriend? Yet it was nice to think they did care about her beyond helping them with their homework or doing research. She bumped her forehead against his chest. "All right. Listen, when I called mum, she --"

"Christmas dinner is ready!" Mrs. Weasley called, looking in the drawing room door. "Sirius, Remus; Cedric, Hermione -- come on, all of you. Amos is carving the turkey."

The adults headed out and Cedric started to follow but Hermione's hand on his arm stopped him. "Mum and dad are coming back early," she told him.

"What?"

"They're coming back on the 30th, and they want me to come home to visit."

He appeared dismayed, but only for a moment before his expression smoothed. "I'm sure they miss you and want to see you."

"I didn't go into detail, but did let mum know I'd be coming from Devon, not Hogwarts, and I'd Apparate there with you." She hesitated, then finished, "I asked if maybe you could stay for dinner. If you'd like, I mean. They said they'd love to meet you."

He turned more fully to face her. "Really? I -- well, I wouldn't mind seeing your house."

She moved a little closer, her hand still on his arm. "I was thinking that perhaps you could stay there a few days. I was rather looking forward to being with you for New Year's Eve. I didn't ask mum about it yet, but if you think your parents would be willing to part with you, how would you like to stay in a Muggle house for a few nights?"

He was grinning broadly now. "I'd like it a lot, poppet."

Mrs. Weasley was back at the door. "Cedric, Hermione -- are you coming?"

They both jumped, and Hermione said, "Oh, yes -- sorry, Mrs. Weasley."

* * *

On Boxing Day, Cedric didn't wake before noon and was a little surprised they'd let him stay in bed so late. Donning a gown over his pyjamas, he wandered out to see what everyone else was doing. There was no sign of his mother, which probably meant she was upstairs in her studio, and his father was snoring on the sofa in the drawing room, which made him grin. No doubt his dad had been up at sunrise, tending to the crups.

Hermione was in the kitchen, sitting at the little table there -- talking to Berry. Seeing his open mouth and guessing his worries, she raised her chin. "I'm behaving myself," she told him.

This appeared to confuse Berry who blinked from him to her. "Miss Pretty-Hermione wants stories about you when you was young, Master Cedric. Is that not permitted?"

"No, it's all right, Berry. Hermione's referring to something else."

"Ah." The elf fluttered her fingers, which was her way of indicating either dismissal or confusion at what, to her, was incomprehensible human behavior. "Come and eat, come and eat," she said, urging him towards the table across from Hermione and immediately filling his plate with Christmas leftovers.

"Cedric," Hermione began conversationally, elbows on the table, fingers laced and chin resting on the back of them, "could I ask something?"

He eyed her; her manner was a bit too casual_. _"You can ask. I don't promise to answer."

Her lips curled in a smile that acknowledged his caution, eyes thoughtfully narrow, which worried him -- but also excited him. A battle of wits with Hermione Granger was always a challenge. "If I understand correctly," she said, "Strawberry isn't permitted to reveal any secrets or say anything negative about the family she's bonded to without permission -- correct?"

His own eyes narrowed now. "Yes."

"Would you grant her that permission? Not" -- she held up a hand quickly -- "about family secrets or the like. Just . . . about what she really feels. Would you permit her to say what she really feels without having to punish herself for doing so -- even if it's not positive."

Oh, he knew _exactly_ what she was up to now. Crossing his arms, he leaned back in his seat and studied her. Strawberry, standing over near the sink on her stool, appeared horrified. "Oh, no! Master Cedric, no! I's didn't ask her, I didn't --"

"I know, Berry," he told the elf. "This is a . . . long-standing argument." Turning he eyed the elf, who appeared completely discombobulated, fingers fluttering madly, ears drooping. "Berry, come here." Cautiously, she got down off her stool and crept forward. "Don't worry -- I told you, you're not in trouble. Now, listen carefully." Berry nodded. "I want you to answer with complete honesty any questions Hermione asks you. Not, you know, if you've been given secrets by mum and dad, but otherwise. In fact, I'm _ordering_ you to be completely honest with her. Understood?"

Strawberry's head tipped sideways. She was clearly baffled. "Yes, Master Cedric."

Grinning, triumphant, Hermione leaned over the table eagerly, dark eyes on Berry, as intent as Crookshanks on the prowl. "Strawberry, would you like to be free? Mistress of your own destiny? Able to do whatever you wanted, whenever you wanted?"

Berry gave a little horrified shriek and leapt behind Cedric's chair. "Master wouldn't punish Strawberry with clothes?" she wailed. "Berry is a good elf, she is! Berry never misbehaves. She does just what her Family asks her, she does!"

Cedric felt horrible for letting Hermione scare his elf that way, but also vindicated. Turning in his seat, he got hold of Berry and lifted her up (she didn't weigh much) to set her on his lap. She was sobbing against his shoulder, and he stroked her pale blond hair. "Don't worry, don't worry," he said soothingly. "I'm not angry at you -- not at all. I'm not going to punish you. Just answer Hermione's questions."

But he wasn't looking at Berry; he was watching Hermione -- who appeared both frustrated and distressed. She crossed her arms. "You knew she was going to react like that."

"Of course."

"You didn't _really_ give her permission to speak freely. She's terrified of speaking against you."

"No, Hermione. What she's terrified of is being turned out on her own. This is her home. Imagine if you were suddenly exiled from your home and made to find your own way? If after giving your whole life to a family, they tossed you aside like so much rubbish?" He was still stroking Berry's hair; she wasn't shaking quite so badly now that she realized he wasn't going to give her clothes. He made her sit up where he could look into her face. "Berry, this is an old . . . debate between Miss Hermione and myself. She thinks house-elves are badly treated and should be free. I think she needs to talk to house-elves to find out what the elves think."

Berry blinked at him, then turned to stare at Hermione. "Why would Berry want to be free?"

The question seemed to take Hermione completely by surprise. "Well -- because! I mean, nobody should be another person's slave! It's wrong. It's just wrong!"

And Berry hopped down off of Cedric's lap, drawing herself up to her full three-and-a-half foot height to declare, proudly, "Berry is _not_ a slave. Berry is the Diggory's house-elf, she is! Berry takes care of her family and _no one_ gives Berry clothes to take her Cedric away from her!"

Cedric just raised his eyebrow at Hermione, who seemed now genuinely baffled how to respond. "But, they own you!" Hermione protested. "You belong to them! That's slavery."

Berry sniffed. "They doesn't own Berry. They's got Berry's oath, they does. Berry is not a slave!"

"Ahh!" Hermione snarled, making fists and grinding her teeth. "Of course she can't say anything else! She doesn't understand!"

"Don't insult her, Hermione," Cedric warned. "And I gave her leave to speak to you freely. I'm not making her say these things."

"But you're right _here_! What else is she going to say? She knows she could be punished later!"

"Fine!" Cedric stood up, leaving his mostly untouched lunch on his plate. "If you think my presence is interfering, I'll take myself off."

"Master Cedric!" Berry exclaimed, looking quite alarmed. "Please don't go, Master Cedric! You haven't finished your lunch!"

"I'll eat later, Berry." He headed for the door. "The same rule applies. I want you to be honest with Hermione. Tell her whatever she wants to know." And he waved the door open, leaving Hermione behind. Maybe she'd finally get it through her thick skull that house-elves didn't want freedom.

* * *

"He is so _stubborn_!" Hermione hissed as she watched Cedric hobble out. Then she turned to look at Strawberry, who was busy picking up Cedric's untouched plate and finding a cover for it. "Berry -- "

"Don't want to talk to you," Berry said, fluttering the fingers of her free hand. "Bad Miss Hermione upsets Master Cedric. He fancies you, he does, but you makes him angry. Doesn't treat him right."

Hermione sighed. "Berry, it's just a disagreement -- one we've had before. It doesn't . . . it doesn't change how I feel about him." And it didn't. "I love him. He just frustrates me sometimes."

But Berry was shaking her head, her back firmly to Hermione and Hermione pressed her lips together, watching the elf work at the counter, standing atop her long stool. Cedric, the prat, had known exactly how his elf would respond to Hermione's questions -- had counted on it. He'd set her up, which meant that Hermoine would have to think around corners. How the Wizarding World treated elves was just shameful, and even if this elf was proud of her family and cared about them, that didn't make the system itself right or moral. If anything, it was worse that Berry was well treated because it disinclined her from questioning the basic social structure that kept her enslaved. "Berry," Hermione said now, "you're obviously very fond of Cedric."

Frowning over her shoulder, Berry nodded, then turned around and to Hermione's surprise, shook a finger at her -- for all the world like Mrs. Weasley scolding one of her brood. "Berry raised Master Cedric, she did. Mistress Lucy was so, so sick after he was born, and even for months before. I's took care of her, and when Master Cedric was born, Mistress Lucy put him in my arms and told me that he was my most important duty in this house. He was so, so tiny, born too early. Strawberry took _very_ good care of him and now look at him! Tall and strong and such a powerful wizard! Strawberry is very proud of her Cedric."

The elf was so obviously pleased with how her charge had turned out, Hermione couldn't help grinning. Nor did she sound especially servile. But. "Have you ever thought about having a child of your own? Not just taking care of somebody else's?"

Berry seemed taken aback by the question at first, then tilted her head. "Now that Master Cedric is all growed up, maybe I's might have a baby of my own. Well," the elf added a bit slyly, "unless Master Cedric and Miss Pretty-Hermione would give me a new baby to take care of?"

It took every bit of control Hermione had not to squeak in alarm. "I'm far too young to think about having babies! Or even about getting married! I'd say you have quite a few years."

Berry turned back to the counter and was now musing to herself. "Maybe I's think about a little elf, someone who'll take my place one day, taking care of this house and this Family."

"What if your child didn't want to take care of a house?" Berry spun quickly, face a mask of shock. "What if your child wanted, oh, to be a dentist, say."

"A dentist? What's a dentist?"

"Someone who cleans people's teeth, fixes them -- that sort of thing."

Obviously puzzled, the elf tugged at one pointed ear. "Why would anybody want to do that?"

"I don't know, because . . . taking care of people interests them?"

"Then they should find a good Family, they should," Berry replied, nodding firmly.

"But what if they don't want to cook and clean all their lives? Haven't there ever been elves who, I don't know, wanted to become curse breakers or healers or run a store or --"

"Those are human jobs, Miss Hermione."

"But why do they have to be?" Hermione exclaimed. "Couldn't they be elf jobs? Even fifty years ago, everybody would've expected me to get married, stay home, and have babies one after the other! I don't _want_ to do that!" Berry peered at her curiously, but said nothing. "Didn't you ever think about doing something besides keep house for a human family?" Hermione asked her, at a loss.

"No," Berry replied.

"You're telling me the honest truth?"

The elf frowned. "Master Cedric ordered me to tell you the truth and I's a good elf, I is. I does what Master Cedric orders. Besides, what else could I do? This is all I know."

And that, Hermione thought, was a good point. "We could teach you, Berry. Just like we learn to do different things. We could teach you too. Nothing says you have to do this for the rest of your life --"

"This is what I _like _to do," the elf protested -- and their conversation clearly wasn't getting anywhere. Hermione tugged at her hair in frustration. She'd have to come up with a new tack.

"Well, is there anything you might wish you could do that you can't?"

Surprised by that, the elf cocked her head. "Why would I wish to do what I's can't do?"

"No, I wasn't clear. I just meant have you ever wished you could go somewhere for the day, but you weren't permitted to?"

And for the first time, Hermione thought she might have got through, as Berry appeared thoughtful. "Well, sometimes I wish I's might go to Diagon Alley. For shopping, you know. Such pretty things there. Colored glass balls and nice bronze cauldrons and soft scarves."

"You can't go shopping?"

"Well, I's go when Mistress Lucy takes me, I does."

"But you'd go on your own if you were permitted?"

"Oh, yes. Such pretty, pretty things. If I's had just a few knuts or sickles . . . " she trailed off and blushed. "But what does house-elves need with money? That's not for us."

"I don't see why not!" And she dug in the pocket of her jeans, then remembered she'd left her coins in her guestroom. "I think it's perfectly reasonable for you to have a little money, and time to go shopping." She bent forward. "_Free_ time." And she grinned, pleased with herself; _now_ she had the right approach. Maybe the elves weren't ready to think on the grand scale, but they understood smaller freedoms. "You shouldn't have to work all the time. Nobody should have to work all the time."

"Strawberry doesn't mind."

Sighing, Hermione rose and pushed in her seat. Rome wasn't built in a day. "A bit of spending money and a little time to go shopping for yourself isn't an unreasonable thing to wish for," Hermione told her and headed out into the hall -- only to run smack into Cedric standing there. "What are you -- ?"

He put a finger over her lips, then moved down the hall into the library. She followed. "You heard all that?" Hermione asked.

"Yes. I wanted to know what she'd say when I wasn't around."

"Then you heard her ask for some time to go shopping and a little spending cash!"

He frowned and nodded, appearing troubled. "All she ever had to do was ask me. I'd be glad to give her some money --"

"She obviously didn't think it a reasonable request, though, did she?" Hands on hips, Hermione glared at him, but after a moment, her temper softened. Cedric was clearly confused, and if this was what she'd sought, seeing it actually happen -- seeing him thrown off what he'd thought was true -- didn't make her feel triumphant . . . just a bit sad. Moreover, if she were honest, talking to Strawberry hadn't gone quite the way she'd imagined. Hermione still thought the elf brainwashed, but she'd clearly been speaking her mind when she'd said she liked what she did.

Hermione would talk to her more later, but for now, she'd heard enough -- and thought Cedric had, as well. They eyed each other a bit warily and Hermione didn't want to get into an argument with him just now. She'd made her point. "You want to go outside for a while?" she asked. "It's a nice day."

He blinked, then looked down at himself. He was still wearing his pyjamas. "Maybe I should go and put on some clothes?" Apparently he agreed that it was time for a change of subject.

* * *

The idea came to him as he changed clothes in his room. He spied a little box on his dresser that had contained truffles, which he'd already eaten most of. Tugging his sweater over his head, he raised a hand to Summon the box to him, then poured what was left of the truffles into his palm -- just four. Shoving these in a pocket of his cloak, he found his wallet and shook out what coins he had. Not a great deal -- it only amounted to a galleon in sickles and a few knuts -- but it was probably better if he didn't give her a gold galleon anyway. Someone might question where she'd got it. Slipping the silver and bronze into the box, he shut the lid, grinning to himself.

Today _was_ Boxing Day after all.

Pocketing the box, he headed out. Hermione waited in the hall near the back door. "Go on outside; I'll meet you in a minute." And he headed for the kitchen where he could still hear Berry at work.

Entering, he smiled at her and she hopped down off her stool to come over to him, bending her head back to look up into his face. She said, very seriously, "Miss Hermione is a bit odd. Berry worries."

-- which was about as close as the elf was likely to get to expressing outright disapproval. Settling himself in a chair at the table, he motioned Berry to him. "She was born a Muggle," he explained. "She sees things differently. It's not always bad, you know." He tilted his head. "Sometimes she makes me see what I didn't see before."

Reaching into his pocket, he removed the box and handed it to her. "Happy Boxing Day, Berry."

Confused, the elf looked from the box to him and back to the box, then she opened it -- and her eyes grew as big as saucers. "Oh, Master Cedric . . . oh, no . . . Berry wasn't . . . you heard . . . but I's wasn't complaining. Oh, no, no . . . "

She started to cover her face but he stopped her. "Yes, I heard. It's all right -- I told you to be honest. I'm glad you were. I found out something I didn't know. Berry, all you ever had to do was ask me and I'd've been _glad_ to give you some spending money for yourself. You've taken such good care of me all my life. This is a small thing, to repay that. From here on out, I'll be certain you have something now and then. You can spend it however you like."

Berry's pink eyes were practically swimming with tears and she threw her thin arms around his neck. "Master Cedric is so very good to Strawberry. She loves him, she does."

"He loves you too."

She let him go then and hurried off with the box through her little access door into the cupboard she'd made up into a room for herself. Rising, he headed out only to run into Hermione -- who'd turned the tables and was standing in the hallway listening in on him. Her eyes were as wet as Strawberry's and she threw her arms around him, too. "That was worth more than all the South Sea pearls in the world," she whispered.

Embarrassed, he frowned. "I'm still not joining S. P. E. W."

She laughed at him. "I'll convince you yet, Cedric Diggory."

They headed outside then, and he went flying for while, but couldn't entice her to go with him, even with the offer to use his Nimbus 2002. "I'm no kind of flyer," she insisted. "You'd laugh at me." No matter how much he protested that he wouldn't, she still refused. "I'd rather watch you."

So she stood in the field below and watched him fly, grinning all the while. When he came back down to earth, they spread his cloak on the winter-brown grass and lay together on it. It was colder out today, the sky overhead steely, but her mouth was warm, and her tongue against his made his blood pound. Before long, he was cradled again between her legs and didn't care that it was near-freezing and the ground frost-hard beneath them. But she had her back directly on it and -- cloak or no cloak -- was shivering, her lips turning blue. If it wasn't advised to experiment with a new method of apparation while taking another person along for the ride, desire granted him inspiration. Gripping her hard, he rolled sideways . . . and with a crack they were lying on his bed, not the field. He'd left his cloak behind but could retrieve that later. Grass and leaves stuck in her hair, and probably in his, but he didn't care about that either.

She made a little noise of surprise from where she was now straddling him, but before she could speak, his father called, "Cedric? Is that you?" from beyond his bedroom door.

They both scrambled up and apart as he called back, "Yes, dad! I Apparated us inside -- it's cold out."

"All right -- just wanted to be sure we weren't being visited by Death Eaters, you know." It was meant to be a joke, but it was also a real concern, and didn't seem very funny.

"We're fine," Cedric replied, watching the door and half-expecting his father to open it anyway, tell him to behave himself and he shouldn't have a girl in his room (and on his bed!) with the door shut.

But his father didn't. Cedric listened to the footsteps moving away, then looked at Hermione. She sat with her arms around her knees and there was still grass in her bushy hair. He plucked it out and pulled her back into his arms but his father's interruption had put a damper on the mood. Cedric was all too aware that his parents knew exactly where they were and would be wondering what they were up to, so after only a few minutes, he sat up again, pulling his wand to mutter, "_Alohomora,_" at the door. The knob clicked over and the door opened. They didn't discuss that decision, but sat talking about other things until supper, when he suddenly remembered his cloak still in the field.

He didn't get her alone again until bedtime, when he whispered, "Come back down later?" She just stared up at him in the candlelight of the hallway. "I mean, if you want to," he added. She still seemed hesitant, so he said even more softly, "Clothes will stay on."

"All right. But your parents -- "

"My parents are going to bed. They won't be checking up on me. I'm a big boy now."

"Yes, you rather are." Then she blushed and giggled at her own forwardness, dashing up the stairs before he could recover wits enough to reply. And she was, indeed, back an hour or so later, slipping silently into his room and shutting the door behind her. "_Mufliatto,_" she muttered, pointing her wand at the door as he moved over in his bed to make room for her. Dropping her robe, she slipped in beside him under the covers.

After anticipating this for the past hour, it didn't take him long to hit his sexual deeps again. He put her on top this time so his hands were free to roam over her thighs and hips and waist, and along her sides to the curve of her breasts. She didn't stop him so he let his palms cover the swell of them and she bent closer, murmuring, eyes closed, brows drawn together a little, pink lips parted. "So beautiful," he whispered, kissing her, his fingers finding the hardened nipples. She wasn't wearing a bra, and it made this so much easier. Loose cotton let him feel more, and she was rocking on him faster. He was losing all presence of mind. Letting one breast go, he pulled her head down to kiss her hard, jaw working as if he could eat her alive. She pushed her tongue in his mouth and his hips arched up into her. "Harder," he muttered.

She obliged, and this wasn't at all gentle now. He could feel her damp heat through their pyjamas and it nearly sent him out of his mind. "Want you," he muttered. "Want you so much." Her eyes were shut and her face scrunched up, breath hissing between her teeth and the sound of that turned him on even more. Letting go of her breasts, he grabbed her hips and moved her faster against him.

"Don't stop," she pleaded. "Touch my breasts again."

With one arm, he pulled her closer until he could latch onto her breast with his mouth through cloth, which he didn't much care for. Shoving her pyjama top up, his mouth sought warm skin and fleshy weight and the puckered hardness of a bare nipple. She practically screeched, and he'd forgotten all about the 'clothes stay on' promise. He was flying as high as he had earlier in the sky over the field, reaching for release, his pleasure as wide as the heavens. It thrust its way from his balls through his spurting prick and crawled up his spine into his throat. He twisted and shouted and groaned, his whole body racked by little shudders and after-shocks.

She must have come too -- although he'd been too incoherent to register it -- because she was sprawled across his chest now, giggling, her face buried in his shoulder. He stroked her back slowly under her pyjama top, feeling almost too boneless to move. He couldn't remember the last time he'd had an orgasm that intense -- and he hadn't even been inside her. After a moment, she whispered, "I wasn't sure if you were in ecstacy or I was killing you."

It made him laugh soundlessly. "I wasn't sure either for a minute there. Probably a good thing you cast that spell."

"Mmm."

"You all right this time, Granger?"

A pause, then, "Yes."

Opening his eyes and raising his head, he looked down at her, but all he could see was brown hair. She didn't feel tense against him, however, and there hadn't been any question about what was going to happen when she'd come downstairs. This had been planned for, not a heat-of-the-moment sort of thing. She slipped off him now, curling up in the curve of his arm, her head on his shoulder, little hand resting on his chest. Completely content, he didn't want to move at all beyond a Cleaning spell on their sticky pants. 'Very handy, that,' she'd said on Christmas Eve. 'Something little boys learn early,' he'd replied, which had made her grin.

Now, he whispered, "Stay with me."

"But your parents . . . in the morning -- "

"I'll set my alarm and you can go back to your bed before they wake up. But sleep with me. I want you to sleep with me."

"It's probably not very clever . . . "

"Probably not," he agreed, but she wasn't getting up so he Summoned his alarm and set it for five -- early enough she could sneak out before anybody else woke. Then turning, he spooned up behind her and wrapped arms around her. "Good night, poppet."

"Good night."

The next morning when he dragged himself into breakfast, late and yawning, he found his mother alone at the dining room table, eating toast and reading _The Daily Prophet_. "You know," she said conversationally. "It's rather rude to make her get up before the sun to go creeping back to her bed in the cold. You may as well have let her just stay there."

He gaped. "How did -- "

"You forget the stairs squeak."

Embarrassed to death, he put a hand over his face. "Oh, please," she said. "If you're old enough to sleep with your girlfriend, then be man enough not to blush about it." Which only made him blush harder as he sat down beside her. "You do remember your spells, don't you?"

"We weren't doing _that_ yet -- "

"Then I expect you will be before long. You _do_ remember them?"

"Yes, mum."

"Good. If you get her pregnant, Cedric, I'll flay you alive with a dull knife. She's a nice girl. Take care of her."

And that, he supposed, was his mother's stamp of approval.

* * *

**Notes:** For those unfamiliar with Boxing Day, there's an old tradition of employers giving laborers and workers a little extra cash in a small box on the first working day after Christmas -- essentially a Christmas bonus. These days, Boxing Day is always Dec. 26th and seems to be more about after-Christmas sales, eating leftovers and sleeping in. ;


	23. Bewitched

"You don't have to come, poppet," Cedric told Hermione on Thursday morning as he and his mother prepared to Apparate into London for Cedric's 6-month check-up at St. Mungo's. "It's going to be rather dull. They're running a whole lot of tests, which could take all day and the only reason they're not keeping me overnight is because it's the holidays. You may as well stay here or go to Grimmauld Place."

"I'll bring a book," she'd said. "Or visit Mr. Weasley. I haven't been to see him yet."

"It's going to be _dull_."

She shrugged. "I can keep myself occupied, Cedric. I want to be there."

But he didn't want her there. What the healers would say, what the tests would show . . . a part of him didn't want to know. The ostrich syndrome. It was foolish -- he needed to know -- but he didn't want to hear how fast the curse was crippling him. School, the D.A., Hermione, Umbridge, Voldemort being back -- all those things had occupied the forefront of his brain and he'd been able to forget that the damage to his body was _progressive_.

Yet he couldn't verbalize his fears, and she was adamant, so she came along. When he arrived back on the ward where he'd spent almost a month, the staff all came to greet him, to ask how he'd been. Even Dyer, the Welsh medi-wizard who'd taught him how to live with the crutches and chair, made a point of dropping in, and when Cedric introduced Hermione, he said, "So this is the girlfriend? I thought you said she was foreign?" -- which caused a moment of embarrassment.

"Er, that was an old girlfriend."

"Oh!" And he laughed, completely unperturbed, shaking Hermione's hand and motioning to Cedric with the other. "I reckon pretty boy here gets a lot of girl attention, doesn't he?"

Hermione was blushing and Cedric opened his mouth to reply, but it was his mother who said, "Hermione is the one who visited my son in hospital last summer. He doesn't keep them on a string, Michael. She's been staying with us for the holidays."

"Ah," Dyer said, still grinning and perhaps the only man alive able to be unfazed by Lucy Diggory's irritation. "So it's a bit serious, is it?"

Not at all sure how to answer that, Cedric glanced at Hermione. He didn't want to scare her, but he also didn't want to lie. "Yeah," he said. "It's . . . serious enough, I suppose." She reached up and touched the pearls at her throat. It was serious enough for pearls, serious enough that she'd slept in his bed one night -- serious enough for her to be here today. He smiled at her; she smiled back.

Healers Groat and Grant arrived then, both dressed in medical green. Grant was blond, tall and young, Groat was stouter, black and older, and head of neuromancy. They weren't the whole team who'd worked on Cedric's case over the summer but once an initial diagnosis had been made, they were able to handle it with only occasional overseas consults. This was the second time Cedric had been back to St. Mungo's since his discharge. The first had been just before school had begun. They'd wanted to see how things were progressing. Now, at six months, they were evaluating him more extensively.

The tests took the rest of the morning and most of the afternoon, and by the time they were done, the sun was going down. Cedric, his mother and Hermione met with Healers Groat and Grant in Groat's corner office -- a tastefully decorated room full of books and occupationally themed gift decor, and not where Groat spent most of his time.

"By keeping track of his condition," Groat said as he parked himself on the corner of his desk, "and how it's progressing, we can begin to develop some sort of timetable for what we can expect. We'll know more at the year marker, but today's tests gave us our first glimpse at how he's holding up."

Cedric sat in his chair, head down, elbows on knees and hands clasped in front of him -- tired and in pain after everything they'd put him through. They'd offered him a higher dosage of Abdoleo, but he'd refused it. He needed his mind to be fully functional. Hermione reached over to lay a hand on his and he tried to smile at her, but feared it looked more like a grimace.

"The good news," Groat went on, "is that the Restituo Potion appears to be as effective as we'd hoped at counteracting the effects of the Nervoccido Curse. The progression of nerve damage is minimal."

"But nerve damage is still occurring?" his mother asked.

"Yes. That's inevitable, I'm afraid. What we weren't sure of was the rate at which it would occur, and whether that might change over time. There was no appreciable change between his discharge in July and his checkup last August. There's been some between August and today, but it's so small, I doubt he's noticed. That suggests a very slow progression, which is exactly what we were hoping for. We'll know more in July, when we can see if it's continuing at the same pace, speeding up, or possibly even slowing down."

"And if he performs the Animagus Transformation, it won't make it worse?" his mother asked, and Cedric's brows rose. He hadn't even thought to ask that.

"No," Groat replied, "it doesn't affect the curse at all -- as long as he doesn't stay in the form so long he skips his medication. For now, I see no need to change his treatment. Same dose of Restituo, same concentration of Abdoleo, though I'll leave it to Madam Pomfrey to dispense a higher concentration of the latter on occasion. This" -- he handed Cedric's mother a small blue bottle -- "is for him to take tonight. He said he didn't want it before this meeting. I understand, but Cedric" -- Cedric looked up -- "I want you to take it when you get home. We put you through the wringer today and you're going to be in pain tonight. No sense in gritting your teeth just to prove you can. Take that and go to bed."

"Also," Grant said, speaking up for the first time, "we want you to put yourself under less pressure at school. The more flare-ups you have, the more it hastens the curse's progression."

Cedric wanted to laugh, and not in amusement. "Tell the Ministry to fire Dolores Umbridge. That might put me under less pressure at school."

Grant snorted and Groat scratched his chin. "Yes, we've been hearing a bit about that. Madam Pomfrey told me Under-Secretary Umbridge actually confiscated your medication. I sent a letter to the school after hearing that -- didn't get a reply from her. But she's been informed of exactly what's involved in your condition. I can't control whether or not she listens, but if she doesn't, you may want to consider withdrawing."

"Consider withd- . . . what? You mean . . . _drop out_? Of Hogwarts?"

"Withdraw, not drop out," Groat corrected. "There's a difference."

Cedric's sat up in shock, and felt Hermione squeeze his arm. "I've got NEWTs!"

"NEWTs are given by the Ministry," Grant pointed out, pushing a hand through his blond hair. "Not by Hogwarts. You can schedule to take them outside school. Doesn't happen often, but there have been cases of other arrangements made for OWLs or NEWTs. If Healer Groat and I write a formal letter advising your withdrawal due to medical complications, the Ministry can't deny you the right to take those exams. It'll be up to you to prepare for them of course, but you can take them."

Cedric hadn't realized NEWTs could be scheduled outside school, and he glanced at his mother and Hermione. Both were looking at him with expressions that -- if he read them right -- said they thought it worth considering.

And he was tempted. He was sorely, sorely tempted. To be free of Umbridge? Not to face returning for another six months of that woman's tyranny, and still be permitted to take his tests?

But if he did that, he'd be letting down Dumbledore, who'd asked him to be Head Boy. And he'd be abandoning Hermione, Harry, and the rest of the D.A. There were too many people who depended on him. Doing what was easy wasn't necessarily doing what was right. "I can't withdraw," he said.

Groat frowned and Grant shrugged. "It's your decision," Grant said in a tone of voice that implied it might be Cedric's decision, but he didn't agree with it. "We'll draft a letter in case you change your mind." Now he frowned too. "And we do want you to think about it seriously. Every time you have another of those attacks, the nerves die a little faster. It's not something to lose sleep over if it happens occasionally because it's _going_ to happen. It's inevitable. But that doesn't mean you have to court it by putting yourself under unnecessary stress. The fact you had three attacks in the last month before the holidays is a bit alarming from our perspective."

"I'm not exactly chuffed about it myself," Cedric pointed out. "Rather difficult to study when I'm higher than the moon. But I need to be there. I won't be ready for NEWTs if I drop out now. There's only so much I can learn from reading on my own. As you said, it's my decision."

"Yes," Grant agreed and exchanged a glance with Groat, who added, "We'll want to see you again when the school year is finished for another set of tests."

"Do you have enough information now to make a prognosis?" his mother asked, and Cedric wished she hadn't. He'd rather not hear.

Grant gestured to Groat, who looked down at his clipboard, although Cedric doubted the answer was laid out there so neatly. "It's still very preliminary, but given the slowness of the progression, I'd say you've got a good 15 years, maybe as much as 20 before you're wheelchair bound permanently."

And Cedric felt as if they'd just punched him in the gut, although they'd never given him more than 20 years. In fact, the concern had always been that it might be notably less. 15-20 years was _good_ news. But that didn't change the fact he'd likely be paralyzed before he was 40, and maybe before he was 35.

"Obviously, as the curse progresses, you'll lose mobility in a gradual fashion, not a sudden one," Groat went on, "and when we see you again in early July, we'll be able to confirm that time frame, but for now, I think you can relax. You'll be able to use the crutches for quite a few years yet."

* * *

Leaving the office, they were all silent until Cedric said he wanted to see Arthur Weasley before departing, and although Hermione had already shared a rather nice visit with Mr. Weasley earlier that day, she and Cedric's mother went along.

Mr. Weasley sat up in his bed when Cedric wheeled in. "Cedric! Hermione said you were here today seeing your doctors. Hermione, good to see you again. And Lucy! I wanted to thank you for bringing Christmas dinner."

"Not a problem, Arthur. We were happy to do so."

They chatted for a bit, and although seeing Mr. Weasley had been Cedric's idea, Hermione thought it mostly for politeness. He spoke little, clearly in pain or upset. Mr. Weasley must have guessed as much, as he confessed to being tired before too long, and they took their leave. Outside, they found the 'apparating alley,' as it had become known -- a shoddy, dank space between two buildings where no one would be looking. Cedric's mother instructed him to Apparate directly to his room. She Apparated with Hermione into the kitchen, where she called for Strawberry. "Dinner for Master Cedric," she told the elf. "Straightaway, and be sure it's something he likes. I want to be certain he eats it, then I'm putting him to bed."

Hermione bit her tongue at Mrs. Diggory's tone with the elf. It might be condescending, but at least it was better than anything Hermione had heard Lucius Malfoy use with Dobby. "Cedric had a long day," Hermione explained to Berry, who was scuttling about in haste. "The tests were hard on him, so he's tired and in some pain."

Mrs. Diggory was looking at her oddly, as if she couldn't fathom why Hermione would explain these things to a house-elf, but didn't comment. Instead, she removed her outer cloak and soft kid gloves. Her jaw, prominent and strong like her son's, was clenched. Hermione hesitated, then asked the question she'd been wondering about ever since the hospital. "When his doctors -- I mean his medi-wizards -- said he'd be wheelchair bound permanently . . . "

"They meant he'll be paralyzed," Mrs. Diggory finished for her, pale blue eyes lifting. "How much do you know?"

"I understand about the curse, and that the Restituo only slows it -- it can't stop it. I know the curse causes pain in the nerves, which is why he needs the Abdoleo. I know it won't get better," she added, in case Mrs. Diggory thought she didn't realize that part, and might now be tempted to leave Cedric.

Slapping the gloves down on a counter, her back to Hermione, Mrs. Diggory, said, "A Nervoccido Curse should have killed him. That it didn't . . . that wasn't a kindness. There was some debate among the healers -- still is -- as to exactly what curse was cast. But I know my cousin. If he'd meant to kill Cedric, he'd have used the Killing Curse. It would hardly be his first time. No, Lucius was experimenting. This is something new, a variation. He meant to _torture_ my son -- and me with him."

"Then why not use the Torture curse . . . ?"

"Because Cruciatus works directly on the pain and pleasure centers in the brain. The caster has to will it to continue. If he withdraws his attention, it stops. But this? Lucius took a very old spell, altered it, and created a new one that's arguably worse than Cruciatus. Once cast, he doesn't have to be present for it to continue inflicting excruciating pain on the target." She pressed her lips together. "His master should be pleased.

"In any case," she turned back to Hermione, "this curse, whatever he calls it, kills the nerves in Cedric's body, but unlike a full Nervoccido Curse, only the part of the body targeted is affected. Nervoccido kills the one struck within a matter of hours. This curse isn't so kind, unless the victim dies from heart failure due to pain." Her eyes were cold as she studied Hermione. "Lucius meant Cedric to live -- and suffer. They can slow it down, but it will require increasing concentrations of Restituo and of Abdoleo as more and more of the nerves die. It's expensive, and at best, a delaying tactic. He will reach a point he'll be paralyzed as a result of the curse damage, or they'll have to paralyze him themselves in order to end his suffering. Since it's new, they're not entirely sure. That's why all these tests." Bitterness froze the edges of her consonants as hard as the December air. "Either way, what my son can look forward to is steadily decreasing mobility in inverse proportion to increasing pain."

Hermione was horrified. Cedric had not told her all this -- no doubt from pride. Seeing her face, Cedric's mother said, "At your age, I hardly expect you to think in the long term, but if you do stay with my son, you need to be fully aware of just what 'it won't get better' means. It not only won't get better, it'll get steadily worse. Think about that. If it's more than you can bear, get out now while he's not yet so attached to you that you'll break his heart completely."

Annoyed, Hermione's chin came up. "I'm not that fickle. It's true I didn't know the full extent of things, but I knew it was permanent. On the crutches or in a chair, he's still Cedric, and paraplegics live full and happy lives. It's not a death sentence."

For the first time since they'd arrived home, Lucy Diggory smiled. It was grim, but it was real. "You're not put off easily. I like that. Go and see if he went to bed like he was supposed to. He's stubborn." She turned to see how close Strawberry was to having Cedric's dinner ready, and Hermione slipped out.

Cedric's bedroom door was closed, so she knocked. "Are you decent?"

"Yeah," he said and she opened it to find him sitting on the edge of the bed, head in hands. He looked up at her. "Mum sent you to check on me?"

"Yes." There didn't seem to be much point in denying it. "You're supposed to be in bed."

"I'd rather like dinner first."

"Berry is making it. She's bringing a tray. Lie down, Cedric."

He glared at her a moment, then unfastened the braces and dumped them on the floor. "Are you planning to watch me change?" It was sharp, not a flirtation.

"I'll be back in a few minutes," she said, stepping out and shutting the door. She waited there, arms crossed. There was a cold, hard, sick feeling in her stomach.

It wasn't going away. She'd told Cedric she knew that, back at Hogwarts, and she'd told his mother the same thing just a few minutes ago, but the enormity of it . . . _it wasn't going away_. Her strong and handsome one was going to be paralyzed. Not tomorrow. Not next week, or next year, but eventually. And she'd have to watch, knowing she couldn't do a thing about it. She put a hand over her mouth to hold back a sob.

"You can come back in," he said from the other side of the door and she wiped her eyes, took a breath, then opened the door and entered to find him obediently in bed.

Strawberry arrived shortly after with his dinner, and when he'd eaten as much as he could manage, his mother brought the potion Healer Groat had given her, the stronger Abdoleo in the blue bottle. They made sure he drank it, then Mrs. Diggory said, "Why don't you stay with him?" and left her there.

"The bed's big enough for two, Granger," Cedric reminded her once his mother was gone. So she took off her shoes and crawled up beside him atop the sheets. They snuggled together there, but the potion took effect quickly and he fell asleep while she rubbed his back. This, she thought as she lay watching him, was going to be part of her life from now on the same as it was part of his. There would be good days and there would be bad days -- hopefully more of the former than the latter. Love happened when one wasn't looking for it sometimes, and not always with someone convenient or easy.

Emotionally drained, she dozed off herself and woke sometime in the middle of the night to find he'd curled up behind her, arm over her waist, face buried in the back of her neck, fast asleep. She laced her fingers through his and thought that moments like this were worth a lot of inconvenience.

* * *

Hermione in the Muggle world was different.

Cedric had noticed that when they'd arrived at the station before Christmas, but the transition had been brief. Now, he saw it again as she motioned him to stay by their luggage, then walked right out between parked cars to hail a taxi. This Hermione was at once harder, more brusque, and more sure of herself. She was back on what was, to her, native ground. She might have spent her last five years as a witch, but she'd spent far more as a Muggle.

They'd Apparated onto the pavement outside The Leaky Cauldron. As he'd never been to her parents' house, he couldn't Apparate directly there, so they had to catch a cab again. (A bus simply wasn't feasible for him.) Hermione hadn't thought of that when she'd told her parents not to pick her up and it was through such small things he was reminded she hadn't been born to his world. Every wizard child knew these constraints, and so did Hermione when she wasn't caught off guard. It was always translation for her, not natural instinct. He was still amazed she did as well as she did.

The taxi wasn't one of the big black ones, but they had rather less luggage this time. She made the driver retrieve her trunk as she carried Cedric's bag, then helped Cedric into the back seat. The driver stared at him, and not due to his handicap. It was his clothing. If Hermione made simple errors in his world, he was far worse in hers. This evening, he'd thought only of making himself presentable for her parents and had dressed in his best blue velvet robes and a nice waistcoat, then had received a startled double-take from her when he'd emerged to leave. She'd been wearing Muggle clothes. A nice skirt, but Muggle clothes. When -- shame-faced -- he'd asked if he should change, she'd replied, "No. No, you absolutely shouldn't."

So here they sat dressed for their different realities, and he was reminded that the culture gap was no less real than if she were Mandarin or Ojibway or something else entirely. It was why he'd wanted so badly to do this, to stay at her house for a few days. It wasn't just that he worried about her out unprotected among the Muggles, although he did. Yet with the Dark Lord still lying low half a year after his rebirth, Hermione was watched somewhat less closely than she had been over the summer when it had seemed like anything might happen.

No, he'd wanted to come to visit because he needed to see Hermione as a Muggle. It was too easy to think "Muggle-born witch" and forget the "Muggle" part, even for him. So he needed to see her in her own home and understand her there. She was making the transition to his world, and as adept as she might be, if he understood better where she'd come from, he could help make it easier for her. She looked like him, talked like him, ate the same type of foods, but being born a Muggle involved more than simply her ability to work Muggle technology and explain to him the Muggle theory of Evolution.

"What's with the outfit?" the taxi driver asked, breaking into Cedric's musings.

"I beg your pardon?" he replied, leaning forward a little.

"Them clothes." The driver glanced in the rearview mirror and made a gesture to his throat, indicating Cedric's ascot.

Cedric had no idea how to answer but Hermione came to his rescue. "We're going to a costume party, but I have to go home to change."

"Oh! Oh, all right, yeah. So who're you going as?"

"Heathcliff and Catherine."

"Good choice, good choice." And he stopped talking to pay attention again to traffic.

Cedric leaned close to whisper, "Heathcliff and Catherine are ... ?"

"From _Wuthering Heights? _The book?"

He just shook his head. Sometimes they knew the same literature, and sometimes they didn't at all. When they reached her house and pulled into the drive, she got out to pay while he struggled with his door. It was rather different from the Ministry cars he'd ridden in a time or two. Hermione had to come around to his side to let him out, and he wished his fair skin didn't flush so easily.

Finally free of the car, Cedric studied the front of the Grangers' semi-detached. It was a nice little house and neatly kept, although unlike the neighbors', there were no Christmas lights out, perhaps because the Grangers had been away. He could see the lights of a tree through the front window, and wooden wind-chimes clunked with an odd music on the porch. The whole front garden seemed to be landscaped with a vaguely Eastern theme, although in the dark of early evening, it was a bit difficult to tell.

The door opened, spilling yellow electric light onto the porch, and Hermione, who'd been dragging her trunk and his bag, dropped both to run forward and engulf the lanky man framed by it. "Dad!"

"Hullo, baby girl."

Kisses were enthusiastic, then she repeated it all with her mother, who looked like an aged carbon copy of Hermione with blonde hair. Cedric stood on the path watching while Crookshanks (free of the bag) wove around his ankles. Anxiety flooded through him again. Both Grangers turned finally from their daughter to him, and he could see the surprise in their faces as they took in his robes. Yet Hermione's father came forward to offer a hand and a smile. "You must be Cedric." Then he seemed to realize that shaking hands would be a bit difficult. "Oh, um, ah . . . "

And Cedric absolutely didn't want to begin that way, so he shifted his weight onto his left crutch and offered his own hand. "Yes, I'm Cedric. I'm extremely pleased to meet you."

"Likewise," the man said, pumping his hand while behind him, Hermione's mother stood arm-in-arm with her daughter.

"Get their luggage, Charles. Come in, kids. Dinner's on the way."

Cedric opened his mouth to say he could handle the luggage -- except he couldn't without magic and he shouldn't be seen Levitating things in Hermione's front garden even after dark. So he had to watch Mr. Granger carry in what he could easily have managed before 24th June. Hermione reappeared beside him to lay a hand on his arm. "Come on," she said. "My turn to show you my house." Her excitement was contagious so he followed, although he felt uncomfortably conscious of his lurching gait as he hadn't been for months.

The interior had been better decorated for the holidays than the exterior, and smelled delightful from the cooking. It wasn't a terribly large place but he rather liked that -- better for three people than the big old country house he'd grown up in. Almost immediately, he found himself the object of interest for a white-and-caramel beagle, who sniffed his shoes, the hem of his robes, and his crutches.

"Leave poor Cedric alone," Mrs. Granger was saying to the dog. "Let him at least get in the door before you insist on introducing yourself. Come in, Cedric. Just ignore Chilli. She'll calm down in a minute."

He did as instructed, getting out of Mr. Granger's way. "Hullo," he told the dog, who'd turned to jump on Hermione, lick her hands, then come back to Cedric, obviously fascinated by his crutches, and probably the smell of raccoon. "You've never seen a human with four legs, have you?" he asked the dog, and to Hermione, "I think she smells Esiban."

"Oh, yes, probably. I didn't even think of that."

"Is Esiban your dog?" Mrs. Granger asked, obviously trying to keep the conversation going.

"Actually, no --"

"He's got a raccoon, mum."

"A raccoon!"

"He brought Esiban back from Canada and raised him."

"Oh, my -- a raccoon? Really? How interesting." Although Cedric could tell Mrs. Granger wasn't entirely sure it was. "Are you allowed to have a raccoon? I mean, wouldn't that be considered an exotic pet and require a license?"

"Mum," Hermione said, "the Diggorys live in the country. And the Wizarding world doesn't have the same laws we do, anyway."

Cedric didn't miss the fact she'd unconsciously put herself in the Muggle world with the use of 'we.'

"Oh, ah -- yes, I -- well, I suppose not." Mrs. Granger was looking at Cedric's robes again. "Do you want me to take your cloak, or -- "

"They're robes, mum. And they're not like a coat, more like a suit jacket, I suppose."

Embarrassed because Hermione's mother was embarrassed, Cedric said, "Actually, I could take the robes off inside. The sleeves might be in the way at the table." They wouldn't of course, but he sought a compromise. "Just let me sit down --" And he settled into the chair Crookshanks had hidden behind, unhooking the front of his robes to slide his arms free. It was, he thought, just as well he'd opted for the crutches as he wasn't sure his chair would maneuver amid the Granger's furniture. Hermione handed the robes to her mother, who in turn handed them to Mr. Granger who'd just returned. He seemed confused as to what to do with them.

Perhaps exasperated, Hermione took them again and said, "I'll put them upstairs," as her mother disappeared into the kitchen, leaving Cedric with Mr. Granger.

Feeling rude, Cedric started to stand again but Mr. Granger held out both hands, "No, no, please, you don't have to get up. Just relax until dinner." He sat down himself in a wing chair and it occurred to Cedric that he'd probably taken the man's seat. He hadn't thought about it, just looked for the closest place to sit, and this entire first meeting felt like one misstep after the other. At least the dog had decided he was acceptable. She leapt up into his lap to nudge him with her nose, a clear request for attention. "Chilli!" Hermione's father began but Cedric raised the hand that wasn't stroking the dog.

"It's quite all right. I like dogs."

"Do you have one at home?"

"Well, sort of. I grew up with crups -- that's a kind of dog, I suppose you'd call it. My father works in the Office for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures at the Ministry. He deals with crups and kneazels and puffskiens, and other magical pets."

"There are magical pets?" Mr. Granger seemed bemused.

"Oh, yes. There are all manner of magical creatures, although I don't suppose you'd see them about. They mostly stay hidden from Muggles."

"I see. Or perhaps I don't see." He laughed, a bit uncertain in his attempt at a joke.

Cedric smiled back even as Hermione returned -- to Cedric's relief -- coming to sit on the footstool in front of his armchair. "So Chilli found a new dupe who'll pet her until his arm falls off," she said.

Cedric's smile deepened. "She seems like a sweet dog. How old is she?"

"Ten or eleven." She turned to look at her father.

"Eleven," he confirmed. "She's an old lady now. She likes her food and a soft cushion by the fire."

"Hermione?" Mrs. Granger called from around the separator that divided the living room from the dining area. "I need you in the kitchen." Hermione ducked out again, leaving Cedric to her father.

"Could I get you something to drink?" Mr. Granger asked.

"No, no thank you. I'm fine." Cedric was grateful for the dog, which gave him something to focus on. He hadn't felt this awkward with Cho's parents. Then again, he hadn't been as invested in attaining their approval either, and he'd wanted to ask them about magic in China. He had no idea what to ask Mr. Granger. "How was skiing?"

"Oh, fine, fine. The weather was excellent, although the snow was mostly artificial this year."

Artificial snow? How did Muggles make artificial snow? But Cedric didn't ask; Mr. Granger had gone on to discuss slopes and tourists at the lodge and the pound-to-francs exchange rate. Most of it washed over Cedric but it gave the other man something to talk about and Cedric made a good listener. The dog had settled down with her long nose on Cedric's leg and the room was warm from the fire, music and women's voice drifting in from the kitchen. When the music suddenly cranked up quite a bit, Mr. Granger turned his head in surprise, raised a finger at Cedric, rose from his chair to peer around the divider, then motioned for Cedric to join him.

Confused, Cedric did so, peeking around too, only to be greeted by a very peculiar sight. Hermione and her mother were doing a funny little dance to the music on the radio while Mrs. Granger pretended to sing (even though it was a man's voice) and Hermione pretended to play the guitar.

_Well, my baby, she's all right,  
Well, my baby, she's clean out-of-sight.  
Don't you know that she's . . . she's some kind of wonderful.  
She's some kind of wonderful . . . yes she is, she's,  
She's some kind of wonderful, yeah, yeah, yeah, yeahhh . . . _

Unable to help it, Cedric burst out laughing and the two looked up. Mrs. Granger made a face at her husband but continued to pretend to sing; Hermione, however, turned bright pink and stopped. Cedric motioned her to continue, but she just shook her head and went back to slicing bread. After a moment, Mrs. Granger gave up too and returned to checking whatever was in the oven. Cedric was disappointed, but also unaccountably pleased to have seen it in the first place. "They do that," Mr. Granger said conversationally, and the tension between them seemed to have broken finally.

Mrs. Granger put her hands on her hips. "All right, you two can stop making fun of us; go and sit down. Dinner's ready."

"We're not making fun of you," Mr. Granger protested, waving Cedric into the dining room, such as it was -- more an open area off the kitchen. Cedric took a chair on one side of the oval table covered by a green cloth and laid with nice plates that had holly around the edges.

Dinner was served shortly after, although it wasn't anything he was used to. "That's potato, panir and pea curry, and that's Indian eggplant salad. We've got wheat-bread rolls and cantaloupe. And there's plenty of it, Cedric, so don't be shy about taking as much as you want."

The food wasn't bad, although he found a meal with absolutely no meat a bit peculiar. Hermione had warned him that her parents were vegetarian. "You're not?" he'd asked.

"Well, they weren't entirely converted yet when I still lived at home. But I can't say I'm all that fond of Hogwart's cooking -- too heavy for me."

Unfortunately her mother's food wasn't heavy enough for him, and he didn't feel full even after three helpings of the main course. "You're too addicted to carbohydrates," she'd told him before, but as much as he liked the food (and it was tasty), he'd be glad to return to something more solid. Manners prevented him from saying as much.

At first, conversation passed back and forth among the Grangers and Cedric listened, but then they turned to quizzing him -- what his father did for a living, his mother, what subjects did he like best? He wondered how much they understood of what he said just as he'd understood only a fraction of what Mr. Granger had said earlier. Mrs. Granger, however, seemed especially interested in his mother's painting. "So the paintings all tell stories?"

"Yes, that's right."

"Could I . . . could I see one?"

Cedric smiled. "I'd be happy to show you sometime. There's a gallery in Diagon Alley."

"I'd like that," Mrs. Granger said. And it struck Cedric that Hermione's parents were both trying very hard to understand their daughter's new world. They might not be able to enter it, not entirely, but they wanted to understand. Cedric wondered if his own parents would've been so tolerant if he'd been born a Squib. The Grangers asked him other questions, some of which had Hermione rolling her eyes. He answered patiently, touched that they cared enough to wonder these things.

After the meal, Hermione drew him off for a moment. "I'm sorry they asked so much that was so silly and basic. They don't understand --"

"They're trying, Granger; it's more than some would. And I don't mind. Really." He grinned. "I like your parents."

She smiled back. "Thanks. I just . . . " she trailed off, frowning. "I feel like there's this great big chasm between us sometimes."

He nudged her with his elbow. "Then we'll just have to build a bridge, yeah?" She nodded.

After the pudding, they all retired to the living room for conversation and after-dinner coffee, then went to bed somewhat early. "You'll be up late tomorrow night, kids," Mr. Granger said.

Cedric slept well and woke late on the last day of the year, lay there thinking about 1995 and all that had happened. He'd be glad to see it end, but wondered if the next year would prove any better.

New Year's Eve was spent quietly. Over breakfast, Cedric listened to Muggle news on the television, most of which he didn't have enough context to understand but found fascinating all the same, and in the afternoon, he discovered computers. "Have you ever heard of the Internet, Ced?" Mr. Granger asked at lunch, eliciting a groan from both his wife and Hermione. Cedric admitted he hadn't and Mr. Granger took him into his den to introduce him to Mosaic and the World-Wide Web.

Cedric was captivated. He and Hermione's father spent the next three hours squirreled away, exploring via AltaVista. Cedric learned about email ("Imagine instant mail without post or owls?") and how to "surf" the internet without images so pages loaded faster. The terminology amused him. It wasn't just the internet, either. Computers themselves fascinated. Why didn't the Wizarding world make use of these? Printers and word-processors were a revelation, even if he were reduced to two-fingered typing ("hunt-and-peck" Mr. Granger called it). Cedric, who'd never been all that fond of writing by hand, wanted a printer. Badly.

"There are things the Muggle world could teach us," he said at one point.

"I have a disciple," Mr. Granger told Hermione, who'd just stuck her head in the den doorway.

"Why am I not surprised?" she said. "It's the Y-chromosome. Boys and their toys. Ced, there's something on the telly I think would amuse you."

He looked up. "What?"

"_Bewitched. _It's an old American show about a witch married to a Muggle."

He stared. "A witch? But I thought --"

"It's not _serious_," she explained. "Not real, I mean -- just a show. But funny."

He glanced at Mr. Granger, who waved him off, so he rose to follow Hermione out into the living room. She was right. It was completely fictional but he nearly asphyxiated from laughing. "Wiggle your nose, Granger! Go ahead -- I dare you!" he gasped at one point. She just glared. Despite having called him to watch it, she wasn't so amused by his amusement. "This is absolutely ridiculous," he said, "but brilliant!" Rolling onto his stomach from where he'd been lying on the carpet in front of the box, he grinned up at her. "I like your world, I think."

* * *

Cedric, Hermione decided, was less at a loss in a Muggle house than Ron might have been -- less bemused by things he hadn't seen before, and he really did know what to do with a microwave, and a light switch. She didn't need to show him any of that. If anything, her parents were more startled at his casual use of magic, although they'd seen magic aplenty in Diagon Alley. It was his use of it in their own kitchen that surprised. Underage, Hermione couldn't use spells at home but Cedric suffered no such restrictions, and had no qualms at Levitating or Summoning whatever he needed. He'd caused her mother to shriek that morning when he'd done it to the coffee pot, which had in turn caused him to lose concentration and drop the pot with a crash. Hermione had come running while Cedric had apologized profusely and repaired the shattered glass. Hand on her chest, Mrs. Granger had said only, "I suppose I'll get used to it." Yet Cedric hadn't, Hermione noticed, performed any spells since.

Besides micowaves, coffee pots and television, he understood more complex Muggle technology too, including VCRs and CD players, although Hermione was a bit surprised when he came down late that afternoon with some CDs of his own. "Jeff sends me these now and then," he told her, "but I've never been able to do anything with them." He handed them over. "May I listen to them here?" They were still in the plastic wrappers, which she tore off while he watched. Susan Aglukark, Keith Secola, Chester Knight -- names she'd never heard of. "It's all part of Jeff's attempt to 'educate' me."

"Jeff is one of your Canadian friends?"

"Yes. He's my age, more or less -- a year older. Daniel's son."

Hermione had begun to piece together the Whitecalf clan, but she wasn't sure what she thought of a people who kept their magic in their heads, not writing it down anywhere. "It might fall into the wrong hands," Cedric had explained. "Knowledge is given only to those who've earned it. Imagine if that kind of restriction had been in force in England? We might not have Voldemort."

Yet Tom Riddle had been adept at deception, and Hermione wondered if he mightn't have tricked what he wanted to know out of others anyway? She'd also heard Cedric admit to 'sorcerers' (dark wizards) among native people, so not writing things down obviously wasn't a failsafe. "No system is perfect, Granger," he'd said, "but they could teach us things." It was part of his conviction that every culture had something positive to offer. "It's the sacred hoop," he told her now as he put in one of his CDs. "We're all relatives."

So they listened to his music, then to some of hers. "I should probably play Oasis or Blur for you," she said, "but I don't have any. Pop isn't really my thing so much; I'd rather listen to The Who."

"The what?"

She burst out laughing. "It's the name of a band -- The Who."

"Oh."

"I do have the Lightning Seeds." She flipped through her CD rack for that, wanting him to hear "Life of Riley." She thought it might appeal to him:

_So here's your life, we'll find our way,  
We're sailing blind, but it's certain nothing's certain . . .  
Although this World is a crazy ride,  
You just take your seat and hold on tight.  
For the first time, I don't mind,  
I get the feeling, you'll be fine . . . _

They were so involved with the music, they didn't realize eight o'clock had come until Hermione's mother knocked on the jamb of her open bedroom door. "We're off," she said. She was all dressed up and Hermione rose from the floor to kiss her cheek. "You kids be good and we'll be back probably around one, give or take. I'd like to stay at home, but you know your dad. When Phil throws a party, Charles thinks he has to be there." Looking past Hermione, she explained to Cedric, "An old university crony of Hermione's father. The wives sit around listening to the boys wax lyrical about their wild days at university, which weren't as wild or exciting at they seem when they re-hash it all, you know."

Cedric smiled politely, and Hermione suspected that one day, he, Peter, Ed and Scott would be guilty of a similar nostalgia. For now, it meant that she and Cedric had the house to themselves for the rest of the evening -- something she'd been looking forward to ever since her mother had told her about the party. They returned to the music until she heard the car leave, then she waited another half hour to be certain her parents hadn't forgotten anything before ditching the music to pounce on Cedric. It made him laugh, but not protest at her kisses as she straddled his lap and he leaned back against the side of her bed for support.

They'd grown so used to this sort of release in just the last week, Hermione wondered how they'd manage back at school. After fifteen minutes of working themselves into a frenzied state and feeling daring and a bit desperate, she moved her fingers from his hair down to his chest, unbuttoning his shirt to drag short nails over the skin of his now-bare chest. "Granger," he growled, "you're not playing fair. I can't do that to you."

"Maybe if you ask nicely, you'd be surprised."

He pulled away to look at her, his gray eyes dilated and dark. She just looked back until he let his hands slip down to the hem of her sweater. She raised her arms so he could pull it over her head, leaving her bare except for a white satin bra. He unhooked that too, and she let him slide the straps down her arms. But even if she'd wanted this, been the one to initiate it, she felt exposed and crossed her arms over her chest much as she had in the bath. This time, he gripped her wrists gently, moving her arms. "I want to see you," he muttered, voice cracking, his expression transported. "So lovely." His long fingers slipped up her arms and over her shoulders, then down the pale, freckled skin of her chest. He didn't touch the cold-puckered nipples, just cupped the curve of her shallow breasts. His skin was warm and she leaned into his touch, watching him look at her. To her surprise, she didn't feel embarrassed now. She felt beautiful, precious, and no longer desperate or daring. She inched closer until she could press her bare skin to his, arms sliding around him.

"I'm cold," she whispered. "Hold me."

So he did. Eventually, they made their way into her bed where they could pull up the covers and he kissed her all over beneath, tongue sliding fire across goose-pimpled skin. This time, instead of straddling him, she rubbed hands on the front of his trousers. She wanted to feel the hard length of him, even indistinct through two layers of cloth. Dropping back against the mattress, he raised his chin and moaned, bucking up into her palm. "Faster," he muttered, and she complied, watching his face as he approached orgasm. Afterwards, he rested a minute, then returned the favor, one hand between her legs, mouth at her nipple, tongue busy until she hissed and groaned and thrashed, feeling wanton and vulnerable. Appropriately -- and amusingly -- fireworks began somewhere outside at that moment, set off by impatient kids; they both laughed as he laid his head in the valley of her breasts, soft hair tickling her skin. She wasn't cold now, and after a while, he scooted up until they lay nose-to-nose, talking about nothing in particular, still half naked. His hands moved idly over her and hers over him. It was almost ten. "We should put on clothes and go downstairs," she said, so they did.

He lay on the sofa with his head in her lap and they wasted time flipping channels, then watched Jools Holland's _Hootenanny_, waiting for Big Ben to chime midnight and initiate fireworks down on the river. "We could go outside and try to see them," she told him, "but the elms along the alleyway block the view of all but the highest. Doesn't much matter though, as half our road lets them off. We can just sit on the front steps and enjoy the show."

That was where her parents found them when they pulled up into the drive a little before one. Hermione and Cedric had warm cider (now cold) and a shared blanket around their shoulders. The fireworks were long over but they'd stayed out under the stars, trading gentle kisses to the music of the wooden wind chimes. She was feeling sated and content and a bit romantically goofy, though she suspected she should enjoy it while it lasted as it wouldn't last long once school began again.

The next day, she absconded with him to Waterstones on Piccadilly, then grinned at his awe when he saw the sheer _size_ of the place, the largest book shop in Europe. They arrived a little before lunch and she couldn't pry him out again until half past four, and only then with far too many books. He truly was her _alter-ego_ if he found book shops a good place to waste the whole afternoon. But he insisted on eating before they returned to her home. "I need meat," he confessed. "I like your mum's cooking, Granger -- I honestly do -- but I'm _starving_."

So they had pepperoni-and-sausage pizza, and she thought he might like pizza only slightly less than he liked Waterstones or her father's computer. "You'd make a good Muggle," she whispered to him in the cab on the way back.

"As long as I didn't wear robes and a cravat to dinner," he replied equally softly.

"No," she said. "No, I didn't want you to change clothes. It's who you are."

He was silent for a time, staring out the cab window, then said, "And this is who you are -- all of this. I'm glad you invited me; I'm glad you showed me this."

"You don't mind? That I wasn't born a witch?"

"No, poppet. I think we're stronger for the fact we're not the same."

She laid her head on his shoulder, deeply touched. With Cedric, she could be her whole self, both who she'd been born and what she'd grown into.

It was hard to say goodbye to him the next morning. "You could come back to visit now that you know where the house is, like you did at Grimmauld Place."

But he shook his head. "You need to spend time with your family without me popping in and out." They were standing in the back garden where he could Disapparate without being spotted. "I'll see you again in a week. Less, now." He kissed her goodbye chastely, slipped his bag over his shoulder and set his crutches, then was gone with a crack. She hugged herself before going back inside alone.

She thought she might get away without comment from her parents until the next evening when she was working in the kitchen with her mother, peeling potatoes. "He's very pleasant, your Cedric," her mother began, which signaled she was probably going to say something next that she didn't think Hermione would want to hear. "Polite and well-spoken."

"But -- ?"

Her mother turned. "What makes you think there's a 'but'?"

"Because I can hear it coming, mum."

Her mother studied her face for a moment. "You're far too cynical for sixteen. There really isn't one. I like him. I suppose I'm just a bit concerned --"

"Ah, ah -- see?"

"I'm a bit _concerned_ about his handicap. That's not a 'but,' dear, it's a _concern_."

"You like him _but_ he's handicapped," Hermione said, struggling not to let her bubbling anger make her uncareful with the potato peeler.

Sighing, her mother said, "No, Hermione. I like him _and_ I'd like to know more about this curse that crippled him." She frowned at her daughter. "I wondered if, well, perhaps there's not something we could do. Modern medicine, I mean. All these potions and spells -- it seems a bit barbaric actually."

That sounded so close to what Mrs. Weasley thought of Muggle medicine that Hermione bit her tongue to keep from laughing.

"He's such a charming young man, I hate to see him in pain, or struggling on those crutches. And I hate to see you struggle with the things he can't carry or do."

"And _there's_ the 'but.' You like him _but_ he's crippled and can't do everything a normal person could do."

"Hermione, you're just spoiling for a quarrel -- "

"Well, you don't like my friends!" she snarled, throwing the potato peeler into the metal sink. "There's always something wrong with them! Harry's uncle and aunt are pretentious snobs --"

"They _are_. I never said Harry was. He's a lovely boy, and they treat him just horribly."

"And the Weasleys are poor and uneducated."

"I've never said anything about the Weasleys' socioeconomic class! Your father simply remarked once that Mr. Weasley is a bit . . . odd, going on like he does about screwdrivers. And they have all those children when they struggle to make ends meet. I understand wanting children, but there are responsible limits."

"And now Cedric! I thought you'd approve of Cedric, at least! But no, he's _crippled_."

"Hermione Jean! I said I liked Cedric. A lot. I'm just _worried_ about him."

"You think I should find somebody better."

"I said no such thing -- !"

"But you thought it! And you wonder why I never want to come home anymore!"

She fled the kitchen upstairs to her room, slamming the door shut. She knew she was being unfair and histrionic, but her mother had raised questions that troubled Hermione even if she didn't want to let them. Ever since the trip to St. Mungo's, she'd been thinking about Cedric's condition. He'd never get better, and she worried more and more that she wouldn't be strong enough to bear it. What if she failed him? Face buried in her pillow, she sobbed while Crookshanks nosed her cheek.

A knock on her door made her sit up. "Hermione?" Her father opened the door and peered around the edge. "Can I come in?"

She wiped her eyes and nodded as he entered, shutting the door and coming to sit beside her on the bed, an arm around her shoulders. She buried her face in his shoulder and he patted her back while she cried. "He's not going to get better, dad," she said. "Never."

He didn't say anything, just kept patting her back. Her mother pushed things, but her father knew when not to, and she'd always felt able to talk to him when her mother just drove her crazy -- mostly because she and her mum were too much alike.

Now her father asked, "What's involved with his condition?"

"It's a progressive curse -- acts a bit like M.S., actually." She pulled away to wipe her eyes again.

His kind face was concerned. "It's not terminal, is it?"

"No, no -- but it is chronic, and he'll be paralyzed eventually." She didn't say how soon. "And I can't do anything about it." She looked up at him. "I know you and mum are worried, but I love him, dad. I do. Don't tell me I'm too young or it's too soon. I love him."

Smiling a bit sadly, her father ran a hand over her bushy hair. "He's a good lad, clever too -- and quite taken with you, I think. He certainly did his best to make a good impression on us."

"So you like him?"

"Yes, we do, your mum and I. We worry, too. But all parents worry about their children. It's part of the job description, you know." He winked at her, and it struck her that Cedric was a bit like her father; they both had the same quiet patience and dry sense of humor. "We can worry without that meaning we don't like him. Now go back downstairs and apologize to your mum. She just wanted to talk to you about whether you thought Cedric might be willing to go to a doctor. We spoke with Aunt Brenda at the party the other night. She said she'd be willing to take a look at him in her surgery, see if there's anything that could be done for him, or at least for the pain. She might be able to refer him somewhere."

"Oh." And Hermione blushed. "I wish mum'd just _started_ there." Brenda was her father's friend's wife and Hermione's pediatrician all through childhood. As her godparents, Phil and Brenda were among the few who knew the truth about where she'd been going to school for the past five years.

"Your mother didn't want to insult wizarding medicine, but you know me. Fools rush in . . . "

She laughed and flung her arms around his neck. "I'll talk to him, dad. I don't know if he'll be open to it, but he might. Although Aunt Brenda might regret it when he starts asking questions."

"Yes, he's a rather curious fellow, isn't he? There are worse things."

* * *

**Notes:** Although Hermione is doing 'air guitar,' I don't call it that as I'm not sure Cedric would know the term. Bren gave me the title for this chapter. I blame Hilly and Sarah (and indirectly, Rossi) for the '90s British pop and introducing me to the Lightning Seeds. Thanks also go to Cynjen for information on British New Year's Eve TV, and to Bren, as well, for a general crash course in New Year's Eve traditions. For trivia mavens, the current site of Waterstones on Piccadilly is the former site of Simpson's, which was the inspiration behind the screamingly funny British comedy, "Are You Being Served?" Technically, it didn't open as a bookstore until 1999, but I'm being creative with time. Same with mention of Chester Knight, who didn't release his first album _Freedom_ until June of 1996. Susan Aglukark and Keith Secola have, of course, been around a lot longer.

**Pretty please review. Feedback is lovely. Thanks!**


	24. Interviews

Hogwarts after the holidays reminded Hermione a bit of _All Quiet on the Western Front_. No new Educational Decrees confronted them that first day, yet tension loomed like the heavy snow clouds outside, dark and brooding, and Hermione's attention was divided among several things.

First, there was Lucy Diggory's painting. Almost as soon as she returned, Hermione made a detour past it in the Entrance Hall. Yet the painting's glade stood empty. Cedric had said the god would be born on the 21st of December -- over the holidays -- but if so, there were no signs of it. In fact, not a single animal could be seen at first, although they gradually crept back, and by Monday evening she could spot badgers and herons, a red fox, and the eagle in the sky overhead.

Second, there was the matter of Harry's new Occlumency lessons with Snape, which he found just short of torture. A bit impatient with his whining, Hermione reminded him, "At least Snape's on our side," when Harry joined her and Ron where they were studying in the library, after his first lesson.

"That's not saying much," Ron retorted. Matters between the three of them had been uncomfortable ever since their Christmas blow-up over Cedric.

"Listen," Harry said, leaning over the table. "I've just realized something. That corridor I've been dreaming of? The one where Ron's dad was attacked doing something for the Order? It leads to the Department of Mysteries, and Voldemort wants something that's inside there. I recognized it during my lesson with Snape."

"So," Ron whispered as Madam Pince stalked past, "So, are you saying that the weapon -- the thing You Know Who is after -- is in the Ministry of Magic?"

"In the Department of Mysteries, it's got to be," Harry replied. "I saw the door when your dad took me down to the courtrooms for my hearing and it's definitely the same one he was guarding when the snake bit him."

And at that moment, Hermione had an epiphany of her own. "Of course!" she said.

"Of course what?" Ron asked, voice still sharp.

"Ron, think about it . . . Sturgis Podmore was trying to get through a door at the Ministry of Magic . . . It must have been that one, it's too much of a coincidence!"

"How come Sturgis was trying to break in when he's on our side?" Ron demanded.

"Well, I don't know," she admitted. "That _is_ a bit odd . . . " She'd have to talk to Cedric about it.

"So what's in the Department of Mysteries," Harry asked Ron. "Has your dad ever mentioned anything about it?"

"I know they call the people who work there 'Unspeakables' because no one really seems to know what they do in there . . . Weird place to have a weapon . . . "

"It's not weird at all," Hermione said, recalling what little she knew of the Muggle military. "It makes perfect sense. It will be something top secret that the Ministry has been developing, I expect." She was distracted when Harry reached up abruptly to run the heels of his hands over his forehead. "Harry, are you all right?"

"Yes, fine. I just feel a bit . . . I don't like Occlumency much."

A bit guilty now for her earlier impatience, she said, "I expect anybody would feel shaky if they'd had their mind attacked over and over again. Let's get back to the common room, we'll be a bit more comfortable there." Really, she worried he might have another attack like the one he'd suffered before Christmas, and didn't want it to happen in a place where Dolores Umbridge could burst in and do heaven only knew what with Harry.

Once they were back in the tower, which was quite busy for a Monday evening, Harry asked her, "How was Christmas at the Diggorys?"

"It was fine."

"And New Year's?"

"It was fine, Harry. Rather quiet."

"What does Cedric think of Muggle life?" Ron asked, trying to sound offhand as he sprawled across a red sofa.

"He liked it, actually. He wants a computer. Or really, he wants one with a printer."

"Don't we all," Harry muttered, pulling out parchment and ink to work on his Charms essay.

"How do you fit a printer in your house?" Ron asked her, surprised. "Aren't those a bit, well, _big_?"

She sighed. "It's not a printing press, Ronald. It's a _printer_. There's a difference. It's about the size of two of your textbooks, all right?" Unaccountably, she felt her temper rise again. "Cedric likes computers, he likes pizza, and he likes television. And he doesn't ask stupid questions."

Without sitting down, she retreated up the stairs to her dorm where she could study in peace. Ginny appeared not long after and Hermione nearly threw up her hands. "What?" she demanded.

Shaking her head, Ginny plopped onto Hermione's bed. "You certainly are grumpy."

"I'm not grumpy. Everyone else is nosy."

Ginny's smile was impish. "Of course we are. Why shouldn't we be? I mean, you took each other home for the holidays! I haven't even _met_ Michael's parents yet, and I've been seeing him longer than you've been seeing Cedric. The two of you sound rather serious, yeah?"

Hermione sighed and looked over at her friend. No one else was in the room to overhear or tease. "All right, yeah, it's a bit serious."

Rolling from her back onto her stomach, chin in hands, Ginny grinned up at Hermione. "You're in love with him?"

Hermione breathed out and looked down. "I -- Yes. Yes, I am." She looked up again, expecting to find Ginny laughing, but the other girl wasn't at all, so Hermione added, "And he feels the same."

"I think you're good for each other," Ginny declared, then sat up and bent forward, speaking more quietly. "Have you, you know, _done it_?"

Hermione pulled in her chin. "Ginny!"

"Well, have you?"

"No!" Although that wasn't entirely honest.

"What _have_ you done?"

"That's none of your business!"

Ginny grinned again. "So you've done something. I thought so."

"What on earth made you think so?"

"It's the way you touch now," Ginny said solemnly. "I saw you put your hand on his thigh under the table at Christmas dinner and he just looked over to see what you wanted -- didn't jump or anything. It was so casual, it was pretty obvious you'd put a hand somewhere more intimate than his thigh."

Hermione blushed. She hadn't even realized she'd done such a thing, and wondered who else had noticed. "Ginny, I don't kiss and tell. I'd be upset if he did that to me" -- which, of course, made her wonder if he _had_. Did his friends harass him too? What had he told them? Boys talked, she'd heard. She found herself worrying more about that than about Harry's mysterious weapon in the Department of Mysteries -- at least until morning when Ron caught her before breakfast.

"Harry had another attack last night. I came up to the dorm and found him passed out. He said something's happened and You Know Who is really happy."

They stared at each other for a moment. Whatever their irritations or awkwardness, concern for Harry trumped everything. "How is he now?" she asked.

"All right. I made sure he got to bed -- watched a while after he fell asleep. He seemed okay."

She squeezed Ron's forearm in both thanks and support. "We'll have to keep our eyes open -- see if we can figure out whatever it was that pleased Voldemort."

They didn't have to wait long, nor look any further than the front page of Hermione's _Daily Prophet_ the next morning:

**Mass Breakout From Azkaban  
Ministry Fears Black Is "Rallying Point"  
for Old Death Eaters**

"Black!" Harry snorted when he read it. "Not -- !"

"Shhh!" said Cedric, standing right behind Harry, Peter in tow bearing a copy of the _Prophet_ too. Both the older boys slid in beside Harry, Cedric across from her. Almost absently, he reached over to cover her hands with one of his, squeeze once, then let go. Hermione wondered if they should have come over here, but Cedric shared breakfast with her at one of their tables often enough for it to be unremarkable.

"There you are, Harry," Ron was saying, "That's why he was happy last night . . . "

"I don't believe this," Harry snarled, practically flinging Hermione's paper back at her. "Fudge is blaming the breakout on _Sirius_?"

"What option does he have?" Cedric asked. "He can hardly admit that Dumbledore warned him about this at your trial. He's invested too much in convincing everybody you, me and Dumbledore are liars." Hermione picked up the paper and opened it to scan for other related stories while Cedric continued, "And what's this about last night?"

"I had another, well -- I don't know -- 'vision,' for lack of a better term. Voldemort was really happy. Happier than he's been since the war ended."

"Why didn't you call for me?" Cedric snapped, bending to look Harry in the face, but Harry glared.

"It was late. You were asleep probably."

"I don't care. Harry, I'm serious about what I said over break. You need to tell us if you have more of these dreams, or whatever they are."

"I told Ron," Harry replied defensively, and Ron nodded -- a bit belligerent. Hermione paused in reading in case she needed to intervene, but Cedric seemed to have picked up on the problem.

"That's good," he said, to diffuse tension. Hermione went back to the paper, giving the conversation only half her attention. "But if it's really serious," Cedric went on, "tell me, too, all right? I don't care if it's two in the morning. Come and get me."

"All right," Harry said, sounding torn between reluctance and relief. Hermione thought him grateful to have Cedric around to lean on as well, but just then, another article caught her eye:

**Tragic Demise of  
Ministry of Magic Worker**

She read a little and muttered, "Oh, my -- it's . . . horrible." The boys all looked around at her.

"What now?" Harry asked. She just handed over her paper so he and Cedric could read it, Ron and Peter looking on as best they could. Meanwhile, she glanced around at other tables but the students seemed at ease, even cheerful. They had no idea. The staff table was another matter. Dumbledore and McGonagall, Sprout, Flitwick . . . everybody there appeared quite solemn. Even Umbridge wasn't happy. Then again, she was hardly on Voldemort's side, even if she wasn't on Dumbledore's. The breakout was a disaster for the Ministry's PR.

"Bode . . . Bode." Ron was saying. "It rings a bell . . . "

"We saw him," Harry replied, looking up from the article, "in St. Mungo's, remember?" He glanced at Hermione. "Christmas day, when we went to see Ron's dad. "But we didn't realize . . . He was in the bed opposite Lockart's, just lying there, staring at the ceiling. And we saw the Devil's Snare arrive. She -- the Healer -- said it was a Christmas present . . . "

"How come you didn't recognize Devil's Snare?" Hermione asked. "We've seen it before." They could have stopped this from happening -- but she didn't add that. Harry had enough guilt to bear.

"Who'd expect Devil's Snare to turn up in St. Mungo's disguised as a potted plant?" Peter asked, speaking for the first time. "It's not anybody's fault but the idiot bloke's who sent it to that poor fellow. How could anybody be that dim, not to check what they were buying?"

"It wasn't an accident," Cedric told Peter, then met Hermione's eyes again. "It was murder. Clever murder, too. How could it be traced?"

"But why murder Bode?" Hermione asked.

"I met Bode," Harry said suddenly. "I saw him at the Ministry the day of my trial . . . "

"He works in the Ministry," Ron said abruptly, "I've heard Dad talk about him at home --"

"-- he's an Unspeakable," Ron and Cedric said almost at the same time, heads turned to look at each other. "He works in the Department of the Mysteries," Ron added.

"And that's where Voldemort is trying to get into," Harry finished, which, Hermione noticed, got Cedric's attention. Harry explained that part of it to Cedric even as Hermione pulled the paper towards her, an idea blooming in her head.

She began shoving things into her book bag. "Where are you going?" Cedric asked, interrupting Harry.

"To send a letter," she replied, not ready yet to explain further. "It . . . well, I don't know whether . . . but it's worth trying . . . and I'm the only one who can . . . " She swung her bag onto her shoulder and headed off, leaving the boys to stare after her.

If this worked . . .

* * *

Cedric spent the rest of the week worrying about Death Eaters and whatever Voldemort wanted from the Department of Mysteries as the news of the Azkaban escape gradually spread and student morale plummeted. Whatever the paper had said, few seemed to believe it as an explanation and some of the more daring asked him to repeat what he'd told everyone about Voldemort the previous autumn. By the next morning, Umbridge had issued another Educational Decree in a futile attempt to corral gossip. Decree Number 26 forbade teachers "from giving students any information that is not strictly related to the subjects they are paid to teach."

Cedric snorted after reading that. Fortunately, he wasn't a teacher. So when people asked, he talked. "Yes, Voldemort's back." "Yes, it was likely Voldemort who engineered the escapes." "Yes, Voldemort can control dementors. He sent them after Harry last summer."

What he said scared people, but they listened. And they asked more questions -- and not just of him or Harry. Students who'd had relatives killed by the escapees found themselves the focal points of new interest. "How do you stand this?" Susan Bones asked Cedric at dinner one night when she'd sat down beside Ed. Ed had been running interference, attempting to shield her from prurient curiosity as she'd lost a number of family members, all killed by Death Eaters.

"It's a war," Cedric told her. "In a war, you don't get to choose whether you want to participate. Just tell the truth," he advised her with a nod at Ed, who nodded back. Ed would look after Susan.

Despite these new concerns, despite the gossip, the homework burying him and his Head Boy duties, despite even the increased intensity of Harry's D.A. lessons, Cedric found himself disturbingly preoccupied with thoughts of Hermione. Or more precisely, what he wanted to do with Hermione. One would think more serious threats and lack of easy opportunity would put a damper on desire, but it just made it worse, especially now that they'd finally got to something more than kisses. For a week or so, he'd had the best of both worlds -- the girl he loved to meet his physical needs with. If they hadn't gone as far or done it as often as he might have liked, he hadn't been left frustrated, and she'd seemed all right with what they _had_ done -- not rushed -- so it was a compromise he could live with comfortably. The rest would come.

At Hogwarts, everything took ten steps backwards, and if he and Hermione did their best to be well-behaved, too much touch left him dizzy and mad with need. They spent a lot of time in the company of others, orbiting each other until the gravity of lust slammed them together again, only to have the fear of discovery drive them apart. It wasn't just frustrating, it was plain annoying because it left him unable to _think_. Some days he just wanted to get off with her so he could have his brain back. He needed the mental clarity as much as he needed the physical relief.

On the last day of January, a stolen moment in the library left him practically begging. "Can't stand this. Need to touch you again. I know places, but they all require standing up, or I'm not allowed there now, like the Hufflepuff locker rooms."

"The Room of Requirement," she said, breathless from his mouth on the pulse point below her ear.

"That's . . . " He pulled away, frowning. "It seems odd to use it for that -- wrong." He couldn't say why, but it did. The Room of Requirement was connected to D.A. lessons and other such serious matters. It didn't seem right to use it for their personal wants.

Hermione was more pragmatic. "And it's less so to use the locker rooms?"

"Students have used the locker rooms for ages."

"And I'll bet they've used the Room of Requirement too, if they knew about it." She pulled away to eye him, amused. "There are no portraits in there, or Peeves, that we have to worry about."

"All right," he said finally. "When?"

"Now."

And he laughed softly, pressing his forehead to hers. "So it's not just me feeling desperate?"

"No, it's not just you." Her voice was warm. "I'll meet you up there in a few minutes."

"What do I tell the wall? It wouldn't do much good if we wind up in different versions of the room."

"That we need a place to be alone together." And turning, she left him. He waited what he thought was an appropriate length of time, but when he emerged from the stacks, he found her still at the table they'd been sharing to study.

"I thought you --"

"Map," she told him. "I waited to tell you so you didn't wonder. Go on up; I'll be there."

He just nodded. He'd been too lust-crazed to remember they needed Harry's map in order to avoid being caught when they left, and it made him wonder what Hermione intended to tell Harry -- which in turn made him wonder what Harry and Ron would do to him if they knew what he and Hermione were up to. Vivisection -- with a dull knife -- might be the least of it. But he wouldn't hurt her, not willingly.

Reaching the seventh-floor hallway where the room was located, he glanced around before pulling out his wheelchair to expand it. It was faster to use that in order to go back and forth, whispering, "Hermione and Cedric need a place to be alone together." On the third pass, the door appeared.

Inside, he stopped to gape. Dozens of candles gleamed in niches and on ledges, all illumining a huge bed with violently red sheets in the room's center. "This is ridiculous," he muttered. The candles might be a nice touch but the sheets made him think of murder, not love, and he wondered who'd first dreamed up this scenario, or if it worked like that. (He wasn't harboring unacknowledged fantasies of Hermione stretched out pale and naked on crimson satin, was he? Then again, now that the image had entered his head, he couldn't seem to dislodge it.)

She arrived shortly, and he looked up from where he'd settled on the edge of the bed. Her expression was as shocked as his must have been. "The room's idea, not mine," he said and she snorted as she crossed to join him, unfastening her school robes as she moved. He pulled her down and finished undressing her, and this time, they didn't stop at trousers. Those came off too, although her knickers and his underpants stayed put -- a final barrier which he thought he probably needed. His heart and body were at all-out war.

After nearly a month-long fast, it didn't take them long and afterwards, they lay together, legs intertwined, breathing heavily. "We'll do this again," she said in a low voice. Troubled, he didn't reply. "You know we will."

"I know. Can't seem to be a good boy and keep my hands off you, can I?"

"You're rather good with them on me." Then she blushed at what she'd said, but he laughed softly.

"I like it when you aren't such a lily-white swot. Makes me feel less like a lecher."

Looking annoyed, she sat up to run fingers through her hair, but he wasn't looking at her hair. He admired the way the candlelight painted her skin gold and ivory and shadowed the swell of her breasts. He reached out to touch one but she slapped his hand away, not entirely playfully. "I'm not a child, Cedric. And as I recall, I was the one who suggested this."

It was true, and in just a month she'd come a long way from the shy girl who'd been worried what he'd think of her that evening in his old attic bedroom. His first and chief thought that night had been _relief_ -- relief that she was ready for more, relief that she'd trusted him to make her feel good too, and relief that she didn't think badly of _him_ for wanting her so much he couldn't see straight.

Now, he pulled her down again and wrapped her up. "We have to be very, very careful," he said, although that was rather stating the obvious. "Can't afford to get caught."

"Then we won't be." Smiling, she tapped his forehead. "Cleverest boy and girl at Hogwarts -- I think we can manage to avoid getting caught."

"Don't get cocky on me, Granger. I'm serious."

"So am I." She stroked his face. "We'll be very careful. But I'm going to go spare if I have to spend the rest of the year like we spent the last month. The holidays spoiled me."

"Me too," he replied, leaning in to kiss her but she pulled away to sit up once more, smoothing a palm over his belly almost absently, her sweet face thoughtful. He lay on his back watching her, one arm bent behind his head. "What are you plotting, Granger? World dominion?"

"Not quite. But before we got distracted and came in here, I was going to ask -- What would you say to an interview?"

"An interview?"

"Yes -- you and Harry. An interview to tell exactly what happened in the graveyard last summer."

"Who's interviewing -- you? And who'd print it? No one believes us."

She raised her eyes. "_The Quibbler_ would."

He sat up too, mouth open slightly. "_The Quibbler_? Are you _joking_?"

"Not at all."

"Nobody in his right mind believes half that stuff."

"But that's just it, Ced. I don't think they necessarily believe _The Daily Prophet_ anymore, either. Too many odd things are happening; people are nervous. Give them the truth, even if it's frightening, and some of them _will_ believe. Not all of them. Maybe not even most. But some."

He narrowed his eyes, thinking about it. "If I agreed, and Harry agreed . . . do you think Umbridge would let an interview with us out of here by post?"

"She can't stop you if you do it in Hogsmeade, can she? We have a Saturday coming up in a little over two weeks."

Abruptly, he grinned. "You're getting better at devious, Miss Granger."

"I have a very good teacher, Mr. Diggory."

* * *

Despite Hermione's rebuke to Ginny about not discussing what she did with Cedric in private, there were times she wished for someone to talk to about it all. She felt at sea, unsure if her intense desire were normal, or whether they were moving too fast. The books she'd read didn't answer those questions; it was all so hypothetical and _vague_ there. She was glad now that she'd bitten the bullet and let Tonks teach her birth-control spells, but wished she'd had more courage to ask Tonks about the emotional side of it too.

Maybe, just maybe, she should talk to _Cedric_ about it. After all, he was her best friend, and it did involve _him_, but she worried he might use the conversation to convince her to do what he wanted. Then again, she either believed he really loved her like he said he did, or she believed he was a callous manipulator. It couldn't be both at once.

She avoided thinking about it by focusing on other things. As their next Hogsmeade weekend approached, she grew increasingly anxious with each morning owl post, but received no reply to her query and proposal. If it didn't come soon, her plans would fall apart and she hated when that happened.

She also noticed that since Cedric's pre-holiday gating, attendance had once more fallen off in his Common Room. Blaise Zabini and his myrmidons hadn't been back, and once again, the main occupants wore ties of crimson and gold or yellow and black. One Sunday afternoon, she sat down at a table with Ernie, Hannah and Susan who were studying diligently while Justin snored on a sofa behind them.

"Where's Ced?' Ernie asked her.

"Flying," she replied. It was one activity they _didn't_ share, although she knew he'd brought his broom back with him in some vain hope she'd change her mind. "He's got to bring the Cup here to the Common Room," she said now, eyeing his Housemates. "Attendance has fallen off again. I've told him to use the Cup, but he keeps putting me off."

"The cup?" Susan asked, bemused, then, "Oh! The Triwizard Cup! You think people would come to see it?"

"Yes, I do. I also know he thinks he'd be showing off if he set it up in the trophy room."

"That's Ced for you," Ernie said, tone half-admiring, half-exasperated. "First Hufflepuff ever to win the Cup and what does he do? Hides it under his socks!"

That made her grin. "Actually, it's sitting on his desk, but you're right in the essentials. I was thinking perhaps if I weren't the only one to suggest it to him . . . ?"

"I'll talk to him," Ernie promised, but Hermione was looking at Susan. Ernie was only likely to annoy Cedric.

Susan seemed to catch her meaning and gave a little smile, looking down at the table. "Ed and I will say something to him."

"_Ed_ and you . . . " Hannah said, laughing at her friend and poking a quill at her. "_Ed_ and you . . . "

Susan flushed bright red under her dark braid even as Zacharias Smith sauntered up. "Where's Diggory?" he asked, looking at Hermione.

"Flying," she replied, then added as she hadn't with Ernie, "Believe it or not, we're not attached at the hip." She couldn't say why Smith annoyed her so, but he did. He'd made it clear that he didn't think her good enough for Cedric and she didn't know if that were because she wasn't a Hufflepuff, or she wasn't a Quidditch player, or she wasn't as popular as Cedric.

Smith just held up his hands as if in surrender, then pulled over a fifth chair to flop into it. "Finch-Fletchly is studying hard," he quipped, which got grins as all of them looked to the sleeping boy. "So if Diggory's out flying, why are you here, Granger?"

Hermione rolled her eyes but Hannah snapped back, "Because she's concerned that attendance in the Common Room is down again. She thinks Cedric should bring the Triwizard Cup here."

Smith looked up from his books, his expression thoughtful. "Might work," he said. "Just requires kicking Ced in the arse to get him to trot it out."

Hermione was impressed that he not only saw the value of the ploy so quickly, but also recognized the intrinsic problem. "I said I'd talk to him," Ernie said.

Smith appeared horrified. "Shit, no! You want to be sure he'll never bring it? I'll talk to him -- maybe get Adamson and Summers to help. We'll just bully him till he gives in."

The girls laughed, Ernie appeared affronted, and Zacharias turned to his homework as if the matter were settled. Hermione left not long after, meandering along hallways in idle boredom. Ron and Ginny were at Quidditch practice, Cedric was flying, and she had no idea where Harry was until she stumbled across him in the library with Cho Chang. Maybe that shouldn't surprise her. She knew he was taking Cho to Hogsmeade, and she also knew he was terrified about it. At the last D.A. meeting, Hermione had overheard Cedric encouraging Harry to spend time with Cho _before_ the date. "Find neutral ground," he'd advised. "No pressure that way, but you can still talk to her."

Now, Harry looked up with a welcoming smile, but Cho frowned and Harry only belatedly realized that his girlfriend and his best friend weren't terribly fond of each other. Hermione smiled a bit sadly and disappeared to the table she now thought of as hers and Cedric's beneath the Butterfly Woman. They rarely needed it for trysting these days but did study there together, and he found her at work when he showed up a little after sunset, looking alight with happiness. It was an expression he often wore when he returned from flying, as if he were still aloft and free in the sky. "Hullo, poppet." He unslung his book bag from the back of his wheelchair and dropped it on the table.

"Did you see Cho and Harry?" she asked.

He glanced up. "No, were they in here?"

"Earlier, yes."

He just nodded and kicked his foot rests aside so he could move himself from his chair to a seat at the table. She set down her quill. "If they start dating," she said, "really _dating_, not just circling, it's going to be awkward." He nodded again. "That doesn't bother you?"

"Harry's happy, Cho's happy, and I think I've pretty much forfeited any right to comment on what Cho does. So it doesn't matter whether it bothers me."

She watched him pull out a book. "I understand why she's angry with us -- I completely, totally understand. I'd be the same, in her shoes. But Harry's my friend, and if they start hanging out together like you and I do . . . well, it's pretty clear she doesn't want me around. At least you and Harry get along."

He looked up at her, smile wry. "Harry and I may -- but Ron isn't any too fond of me." Surprised, she just blinked. "Oh, come on, Granger. Surely you've figured out by now that he has -- or at least had -- a crush on you. I didn't realize at first how he felt, and by the time I did, I was head over heels for you, and not inclined to wait around _in case_ he worked up the nerve to ask you out. Still, it's not that different in dynamics. He thinks he was there first, and I'm the interloper."

She realized her mouth was hanging open. "He . . . but . . . Viktor . . . " She stopped finally, aware she must sound like a fool. Cedric wore that lopsided grin of his. "I'm not some sort of attraction that people queue up for, or an object in an auction," she said finally, focusing on that because the enormity of what he'd just told her overwhelmed. "If he'd really wanted me, he might have tried asking me to the Yule Ball last year."

Still grinning, Cedric looked back down at his book. "Doesn't have to be logical to be true. Although I'm rather glad he _didn't_ ask you or we might not be sitting here."

And that raised a different sort of question, one which she had to turn over in her mind and poke at from different angles. After perhaps fifteen minutes, she said, "Yes, I think we would be." He looked up at her, expression soft and mildly surprised. "I'd have fallen in love with you no matter what, and maybe it's kinder that he didn't ask me then."

He studied her face. "You make it sound like we're a foregone conclusion, Granger."

Blushing, she looked away towards the window, wondering if she'd just scared him off. "You're the right one for me, that's all."

He was still looking at her, mouth turned up slightly at the corners -- she could see as much in her peripheral vision. "I hope you still think so in ten years."

It was, she thought, an understated acknowledgment. They'd been together only five months, but all her thinking about the future these days seemed to include him as a matter of course. Perhaps his now included her too, and she realized he'd left himself a bit open with that last comment. He was trying to act nonchalant but had glanced up at her twice while she thought about it and his knuckles were white on his quill. "Unless you undergo a massive personality transplant," she told him finally, "then yes, I think I'll feel the same in ten years."

He snorted, but his hand relaxed.

After that evening, their conversations sometimes included talk of the coming summer and even the year to follow, and if she realized the future was never certain -- and they were still very young -- their acknowledged intention to stay together gave her a sense of stability that she hadn't realized she'd needed until she had it. The next time they met in the Room of Requirement two days before Hogsmeade, she had no qualms about ditching not only her top and jeans, but her knickers too, once they were under red satin. Then she peeled him out of his. "Are you sure?" he asked her softly.

In answer, she took hold of his prick, touching him for the first time with nothing in between. He gasped and let his eyes flutter shut, a look of utter bliss on his face as he gave himself into her hands. It made her smile, delighted, then concentrate on what she held. If she'd known erections were hard, the velvet softness of the skin itself startled her, as did its blood-warmth. He moaned as she moved her hand up and down, feeling bumpy veins and wiry pubic hair at the base. The tip was slick from pre-ejaculate and when she drew fingers over it, he shuddered. "Like that?" she asked. He laughed a little breathlessly in reply, and she licked the corner of his mouth and his jaw and his ear while she worked him, whispering after a while, "Come for me, sweetheart." He did, spasming in her hand and shooting semen in four ropey spurts all over his belly and her fingers.

Afterwards he kissed her for a while, the pads of his fingers soft on her cheek and neck and breast. She let him slide the fingers of his other hand between the lips of her vulva, massaging her gently, his mouth open in wonder as she mewled and bucked and finally squealed in orgasm.

It had been less than two months since they'd first moved past kisses, but she felt surprisingly relaxed about this. He planned to stay with her; this wasn't temporary. Still, her earlier questions nagged at her. "Are we going too fast, do you think?" she whispered as they lay together afterwards.

He frowned, looking concerned. "Are you feeling rushed? I'm not wanting --"

"No," she interrupted, "No, I don't feel rushed. I just wondered if maybe I should? I don't know. I've . . . well, I've never got this far before. I have no idea what's normal."

And he appeared thoughtful more than sly or worried. "I don't know if there is a 'normal,' Granger. I think it depends on a lot of things."

"Like?"

"Like how much you love the person, how much you trust them, how old you are -- and what you want out of it, too. Sometimes it's about love, but sometimes it's just about getting off, you know?"

Yet she didn't know, or at least had a hard time connecting with that as a motivation and wasn't sure she could let a boy touch her so intimately without love and trust. Maybe getting off just to get off was a boy thing, but she didn't say so because she might just be a prude too.

He tilted his head. "What made you ask if we're going too fast if you don't feel rushed?"

"I don't know," she confessed. "I suppose I'm just . . . not sure what's normal, like I said. This is all new to me. But you've done this before, I assume?"

It was probably a silly thing to ask, but he just shifted a little and asked in return, "Do you really want to know?"

She thought about it, then nodded. "Yes, I think I do. Not to be nosy, but yeah, I think maybe I should know."

He was silent a moment, then said, "All right, then yes, I've done this before. Done a bit more."

Mulling that over, she pressed kisses to his throat and the hollow between his clavicles; he raised his chin to grant her access. "Everything?' she asked.

She felt him chuckle against her lips. "Well, I can't confess to having been tied up and covered with whipped cream, no."

And that made her blush and laugh too. "No! I meant . . . you know, _that_ everything."

"Are you trying to ask if I've had sex? Just use the word, poppet. Yes, I've had sex."

She was blushing harder now. "Well I suppose we've had _sex_. I meant have you had intercourse?"

Abruptly, he pulled back to look at her. "Granger, sex is intercourse. You do know that, right? You do know what intercourse is?"

She frowned. "Good God, I'm not _that_ naïve, thank you. But we've, well, we've both made each other come. And we're lying here with no clothes on. I'd say that's sex."

He frowned slightly, gray eyes dark. "Still a ways from intercourse, poppet."

"And sex is always _only_ intercourse? Sort of a narrow definition, don't you think? What do you call the rest of it?"

Her question seemed to throw him and he didn't reply at first, finally said, "I just meant intercourse feels . . . . Well, it's more intimate. Being inside . . . " He trailed off, blushing and running his palm up and down her arm. "It's pretty special -- doesn't feel like anything else."

She found his words at once fascinating and tender, and the fact he was willing to share that with her -- that was trust too. She wasn't the only one trusting here, and her natural curiosity made her ask, "It feels different coming that way than with my hand on you?"

He nodded, still blushing. "Definitely. Definitely different. I think it's a bit more complicated for girls," he admitted, "But for blokes -- yeah. We're pretty simple, when it comes down to it."

"Yes, you're _right out there_, aren't you?" she asked, laughing as she let her fingers walk down his abdomen to grip him again. He gasped, his penis soft at first, but not staying that way. "In the meantime," she told him, "we'll _have sex_ this way."

"My stubborn Granger," he muttered, but didn't seem especially interested in continuing the quarrel past that single protest.

* * *

Halting his chair in front of Honeydukes, Cedric stared at the Ministry's Wanted sign in the window. It showed images of ten escaped Death Eaters; every shop in Hogsmeade had one in a bizarre sort of overkill. He felt Hermione's hand on his shoulder. "Do you find those as creepy as I do?"

"Yeah," she replied simply.

He'd thought about going inside to get homemade fudge -- which he loved -- but he wasn't interested any more. "Where do you want to go?" Hermione asked.

"Somewhere without the damn signs."

"The little park, maybe?"

The place in question was on the Hogwarts side of town, not far from the station and across from the Three Broomsticks, where they'd need to be at noon for Hermione's semi-mysterious interview. The little park -- so dubbed because it was really just a couple of benches amid oaks and ash -- wasn't as isolated as the real town park, where dangers might lurk, given the Azkaban breakout. Cedric had reiterated to his prefects the night before that he didn't want students to wander off alone and no one had argued, even if the Slytherins had appeared a bit smug.

Now, he and Hermione headed for the park, but had no sooner reached it than the gray clouds overhead opened to drizzle frigid rain on them. "Bloody hell," Cedric snarled, as they were forced to make for the Three Broomsticks early, along with a number of other people. Hermione found them a table on the west side where they ordered hot coffee, and cheese and chips because Cedric was hungry even if it wasn't yet lunchtime. He offered her a chip but she made a face, muttering, "Pub food."

Just then, Hagrid entered and Hermione waved to him but Hagrid didn't seem to notice. Cedric was (selfishly) glad, although Hagrid's physical state startled him. "What did he get into? A bar brawl?"

Hermione glanced over. "What?"

"Hagrid's face! He looks like he went three rounds with a troll."

"I know," Hermione replied. "He's looked like that since he got back, but won't tell us why. Fresh cuts as soon as the old ones close up."

"What d'you think he's hiding out in the Forbidden Forest this time?" Cedric asked her. She turned to stare at him. "Well he's got something dangerous out there, that's plain," Cedric said. "He didn't get those bruises at curling, poppet. Imagine something that can hurt _Hagrid_."

Blowing on her second cup of coffee, she studied Hagrid's rather morose form, but they had no more opportunity for conversation as Luna Lovegood was suddenly standing in front of their table, blocking their view. "Hermione," she said, a bit stiffly, then broke into a grin at Cedric. "I'm so glad you agreed to do this!" she told him.

Before he could reply, a second figure appeared behind Luna, not looking nearly as cheerful.

"Rita Skeeter?" he asked in a burst of disgust.

No longer stylishly dressed or flirtatious, the ex-_Daily Prophet_ reporter's spell-blonde hair hung lank about her face and the skin beneath her dark, beady eyes was puffy. Those eyes flashed between him and Hermione. "I see you haven't lost your taste for Triwizard Champions," she said to Hermione, sliding into a seat across from them. Luna joined her.

Cedric was astonished. Hermione intended _Rita Skeeter_ to interview him and Harry? "No way in bleedin' hell I'm talking to her," he muttered.

Hermione ignored him. "Who I'm seeing is none of your business," she told Skeeter, "and not what you're here for."

"What _am_ I here for?" Skeeter asked, her greedy eyes sliding over Cedric in his wheelchair. "How are you getting on, Cedric?" She reached for her crocodile-skin handbag as Madam Rosmerta approached the table.

"What can I get you?" Rosmerta asked, her nose wrinkling at Skeeter.

"Coffee," Luna said at the same time Rita said, "Firewhiskey. Granger is paying."

Cedric started to protest but Hermione waved a hand, her attention caught by something going on elsewhere in the pub. Rosmerta withdrew and Rita pulled out her green Quick-Quotes Quill. "What's life like on wheels?" she asked.

Hermione's attention returned to the table. "That's not what you're here for, either," she warned Rita.

"As you still haven't told me what I _am_ here for, I suppose I'll have to improvise."

But Hermione turned away again and was waving. "Harry! Harry, over here!"

Harry approached the table, nodding to Cedric as he pulled up a fifth chair before turning to Skeeter with an expression that said he felt as doubtful about this as Cedric was. "What happened with Cho?" Cedric asked. "I didn't think you'd be here until noon?" But Harry just shook his head even as Skeeter's attention homed in on that.

"Cho?" Skeeter asked. "The same Cho Chang who went to the Yule Ball with Cedric last year?"

Skeeter had a good memory. "It's none of _your_ business if Harry's been with a hundred girls," Hermione snapped, and she and Rita fell to sniping at each other even as Rosmerta arrived with the women's drinks.

". . . They've run plenty of horrible stories about Harry and Cedric this year without my help," Skeeter was saying, speaking of _The Daily Prophet_. "How has that made you feel? Betrayed? Distraught? Misunderstood?"

"How about _pissed off_?" Cedric returned.

"Of course they feel angry," Hermione said, "because they told the Minister of Magic the truth and the Minister's too much of an idiot to believe them."

"So you actually stick to it, do you, that He Who Must Not Be Named is back?" Skeeter glanced between Harry and Cedric. "All this garbage Dumbledore's been telling everybody about You Know Who returning and yourselves as the sole witnesses?"

"We weren't the sole witnesses," Harry snarled. "Dumbledore was there himself. And Professor McGonagall and Arthur Weasley. Oh, and a dozen-odd Death Eaters, as well. Want their names?"

"I'd love them," Skeeter said, reaching for her Quick-Quotes Quill again. "A great bold headline**: ** _'Potter Accuses . . . '_ with a subheading, _'Harry Potter Names Death Eaters Still Among Us.'_ And then beneath a nice big photograph of you**: **_'Disturbed teenage survivor of You Know Who attack, Harry Potter, 15, caused outrage yesterday by accusing respectable and prominent members of the Wizarding community of being Death Eaters . . . '_

Abruptly she stopped fingering the quill. "But of course Little Miss Perfect wouldn't want that story out there, would she?"

"As a matter of fact," Hermione replied, smiling almost sweetly, "that's exactly what Little Miss Perfect _does_ want -- with the correction, of course, that _Cedric_ be included too. But then, you rather forgot about him last year as well, didn't you?"

Harry, Rita and Cedric all stared at her, although Cedric, at least, had been given some inkling of what this was about. Luna, as usual, appeared not the least fazed. "You want me to report what they say about He Who Must Not Be Named?" Skeeter asked Hermione softly.

"Yes, I do," Hermione replied. "The true story. All the facts. Exactly as Cedric and Harry report them. They'll give you all the details, tell you the names of the undiscovered Death Eaters they saw there, tell you what Voldemort looks like now -- oh, get a grip on yourself!" Hermione admonished when Skeeter leapt so badly that she spilled half her firewhiskey. Luna just handed her a napkin.

Skeeter blotted her raincoat. "The _Prophet_ wouldn't print it," she said. "In case you haven't noticed, nobody believes their cock-and-bull story. Everybody thinks Harry's delusional and Cedric's a bit too potion-happy. Now, if you let me write the story from that angle . . . "

"We don't need another story of that type, thank you," Hermione said. "I want them given an opportunity to tell the truth."

"There's no market for a story like that."

"You mean the _Prophet_ won't print it because Fudge won't let them," Cedric corrected her.

Skeeter glared at him. "All right, Fudge is leaning on the _Prophet_, but it comes to the same thing. They won't print a story that shows either of you in a good light." Skeeter's tone was no longer wheedling or coercive, simply businesslike. "Nobody wants to read it. This last Azkaban breakout has got people quite worried enough. People just don't want to believe You Know Who is back."

"So _The Daily Prophet_ exists to tell people what they want to hear, does it?" Hermione asked, tone lofty with disdain.

"The Prophet exists to sell itself, you silly girl," Skeeter informed her, which was, Cedric thought, absolutely true, and not terribly flattering.

"My dad thinks it's an awful paper," Luna burst in a bit unexpectedly. "He publishes important stories that he thinks the public needs to know. He doesn't care about making money."

That made Cedric smile, although Skeeter reacted with almost comical patronizing -- which turned even crueler when Luna admitted her father was the editor of _The Quibbler_. "_The Quibbler!_" Skeeter howled, "You think people will take them seriously if they're published in _The Quibbler_?"

Which had been, more or less, Cedric's reaction, but Hermione gave Skeeter the same answer she'd given him, pointing out the unsatisfactory nature of the _Prophet's_ story, and Cedric had already seen how people had wanted to hear what he'd had to say in the wake of that. "She's got a point," he tacked onto the end of Hermione's defense. "Students have already been asking me questions."

Skeeter looked between the two of them, then took in Luna and Harry as well. "All right, let's say for a moment I'll do it. What kind of fee am I going to get?"

And a discussion of her pay -- or lack thereof -- followed, which amused Cedric until Hermione explained just what she had on Skeeter that made the other woman dance to her tune. "Otherwise, as you very well know, I'll inform the authorities that you are an unregistered Animagus."

Cedric nearly spit coffee out his nose. "What? She's a _what_?"

Skeeter narrowed her eyes at him. "Don't look so amazed, Mr. Diggory. Or do you assume I'm some untalented hack --"

"That's exactly what you are," Cedric replied, glaring at her. "But being an unregistered . . . " He turned to Hermione. "Granger, you have to report this."

She shook her head. "It's too useful."

"It's _blackmail_."

"Yes, it rather is."

And Cedric sat back in his chair. "Surprised to find Little Miss Perfect isn't so perfect?" Skeeter asked him, mouth curling. "She's a vicious know-it-all is what she is."

"You're not one to talk," Harry scolded as Cedric asked, "What do you become, anyway?"

"A bug," Hermione replied before Skeeter could. "A beetle."

Which made Cedric snort and Skeeter glare. "Don't laugh, boy. It's useful."

"I could eat you for lunch."

"Cedric becomes an eagle," Hermione explained to Skeeter, whose eyes widened as she studied Cedric with new interest. "So I'd be careful what you write about him, if I were you." Hermione grinned, then glanced between Harry and Cedric. "Okay, then? Ready to tell the public the truth?"

"I suppose," Harry said, looking to Cedric, who nodded. Rita Skeeter had set her Quick-Quotes Quill to parchment, waiting.

"Fire away then, Rita," Hermione said, taking a sip of coffee and leaning back to watch protectively.

After the interview, Rita departed and Cedric turned to Hermione. "You can't keep the fact she's an Animagus a secret. There's a reason we have to register."

But Hermione just shook her head. "She's useful, Cedric. You wait and see. We need someone like her." But there was something vicious in her face, and Cedric thought she enjoyed having Skeeter under her thumb. It was a side of Hermione he hadn't really seen before, and bothered him deeply. Harry, however, seemed to agree with Hermione, and Luna was untroubled. All Cedric could think was how he could get Hermione out of this mess before it came back to haunt her.

"It's _wrong_," he said now.

She glared at him. "You don't argue that Sirius should register."

"That's very different, Granger, and you know it. Don't play stupid."

Harry was starting to look sheepish, but Luna just continued to watch with interest while the two of them glared at each other as if they were characters in one of Hermione's Muggle television shows. "She's useful," Hermione said again, then added, "Your mother would agree."

"My mother would tell you you're playing with fire. If the Improper Use of Magic Office finds out not only that she's been hiding her status as an Animagus, but that you knew and didn't turn her in, you'll be found just as guilty." Then his voice changed as he came back to the heart of what upset him. "And it's _wrong_. It's just _wrong_."

Her face was finally showing hints of shame -- but anger too. "The rest of the world isn't playing fair at the moment, Cedric, why should we? I'm tired of seeing them go after you and Harry for telling the truth. Obviously the _truth_ isn't good enough anymore. It's stopped being about right and wrong and become a matter of survival. And not just for us, but for the whole Wizarding World. People need to know Voldemort is back -- know and really believe it."

That, he thought, sounded like his mother. Nevertheless. "When this interview is published, I want you to cut her loose." Hermione's face showed surprise and she opened her mouth to protest but he put a hand over it. "You tell her that if she registers as a new Animagus, you won't reveal how long she's been one. And maybe it won't come out that you knew anything about it."

She frowned at him over the top of his hand and bit his fingers, but not hard. He dropped the hand. Harry was squirming in his chair. "Maybe Ced's right," he said to Hermione. "You could get in serious trouble."

She glared between them both and then shrugged, feigning a lack of concern. "Fine. We'll see how this goes. If she writes a fair article, maybe we'll call it even. But I'm still going to tell her that if she writes more trash about any of us, I'll tell them just how long she's kept her status as an Animagus a secret in order to find out the awful things she's printed about people. I'm pretty certain she has enough victims out there, she won't want _that_ to become known."

Cedric refrained from pointing out that revealing any such thing would get her in as much trouble as Skeeter, and hoped Skeeter was as afraid of the people she'd written about as Hermione seemed to think she was. "The trick with blackmail," he told her, "is that you have to know how far you can push a person before they break. I fear you're dancing at the edge of Rita's tolerance, poppet."

She eyed him. "I thought you didn't approve?"

"I don't. Doesn't mean I don't understand the principles. Mother made me read Machiavelli, remember?"

"I'm going to have to borrow that book," she said, which rather alarmed Cedric.


	25. The Battle for Hogwarts

Hermione was still irritated with Cedric, and he was still irritated with her -- and when that happened, life was simpler (or at least less explosive) if they didn't spend time in each other's company. They'd never discussed this arrangement, just fallen into it, so when lunch was over Hermione left The Three Broomsticks with Luna, and Cedric left with Harry. It wasn't raining any more but the sky still hung heavily overcast.

"Doesn't look like either of us is having much luck with girls on Valentine's Day," Harry said sullenly, hands shoved deep into his pockets as they made their way up the street to the local post office. Cedric thought it wise to warn his parents about the coming interview as, unlike Harry, he had family who could get into trouble for his choices. And if he couldn't trust that a Hogsmeade post owl wouldn't be intercepted, at least he knew Umbridge or Filch wouldn't be reading this letter before it got out of the castle.

Now looking up at Harry, he said, "Since you were early, I take it the date with Cho went badly?"

"She wanted to go to Madam Puddifoots -- said _you_ took her there last year." Harry's expression was bemused. "Why would she want to go there if you took her and she's angry with you?"

"I don't suppose it occurred to you she might be trying to replace memories of me with memories of you?"

Harry blinked behind his glasses. "Oh." And his frown deepened. "See, that's why you have the girlfriends. Girls make sense to you."

His words made Cedric laugh. "First, why don't you try thinking about girls less as _girls_ and more as people? They're not that mysterious, you know. One of your best friends is one. Second, making sense of _people_ -- girls or boys -- means trying to put yourself in their shoes a bit. It's not so hard, but you have to realize not everybody sees things the same way you do -- and be okay with that, not upset or put off by it. Now, finish telling me what happened with Cho."

They'd reached the post office and Harry held the door for Cedric, but it was done so matter-of-factly, Cedric didn't mind. "Well," Harry said, "everything went all right at first -- we talked about Quidditch, and you were right about spending time with her beforehand. After we studied together last week, I knew what homework she had, so we talked about homework too." Cedric nodded as he dug in the bag he kept attached to the back of his chair, drawing out the letter he'd penned in The Three Broomsticks and a sickle for the post fee.

"We walked around town a bit, then she said she wanted to get a coffee at Madam Puddifoots. But Ced, that place is awful. Bows and frills and cherubs tossing confetti . . . why on earth did you have to take her _there_ last year?" The unspoken being that Harry had been forced to live up to it.

"Because she likes it." Turning his head, he grinned at the younger boy, confiding, "It's bloody awful, isn't it?" -- which made Harry laugh. Cedric handed over the sickle to the postmistress and was brought an owl. He was able to tie the letter to the owl's leg himself and see it off.

"So we had coffee," Harry was saying, "and Roger Davies was in there with his girlfriend and they were kissing. In _public_." Cedric had a hard time not laughing at Harry's affronted expression. "Cho said that Roger had asked her to go with him, but she turned him down to come with me and, well -- what was I supposed to say to that?" Cedric was biting the inside of his cheek now as he and Harry exited the building back onto the street. "She had her hand on the table, like she might want me to hold it, but I wasn't sure if she really did. I couldn't think of anything to say, so I said I had to meet Hermione at The Three Broomsticks at noon. She went absolutely spare! Started yelling in the middle of the teashop about Hermione always ruining everything and if I'd rather spend time with Hermione than with her, I could leave right then. But _she_ stormed out."

Halting his chair, Cedric spun it so he could face Harry. "You told your _date_ you were going to have lunch with another girl? Harry!"

"Well, I told her that Hermione had told me she could come along! And I didn't know what Hermione wanted so how could I explain?"

Cedric rubbed his eyes. "First, all you had to say was that Hermione had insisted on seeing you over lunch. You didn't really want to go -- you'd rather spend time with her -- but you felt obligated, then beg her to come with you. Wouldn't have been comfortable, but we'd have managed." He gave Harry a lopsided grin. "As for that bit about Roger, she was trying to make you jealous."

"Why?" Harry appeared genuinely baffled.

"Because some people do that. They need the reassurance." He waved a glove-covered hand. "That's partly my fault. Cho didn't used to be like that. She wants to know you won't do to her what I did, so she was testing you, wanted to know if you'd get upset about Roger."

"Why would I get upset about Roger if she went with me?"

Cedric shook his head. "Cho needs to be told things. Some people need actions, some need words. Cho needs words. It doesn't take much, you know -- just when you see her, tell her you're _glad_ to see her. Tell her you like spending time with her -- that's all she wants. Most of us are insecure in some way; we just show it differently. And for the love of Merlin, don't bring up Hermione!"

"She knows Hermione's just a friend --"

"She may know that intellectually, but Hermione's, well, a bit of a sore spot." He frowned. That was his fault too, and Harry was well aware of it. His expression said as much. "I told Cho the same thing, you know -- that Hermione was just a friend. I did try, Harry -- I honestly did _try_ -- and Cho tried not to be jealous, to trust me." He looked at the younger boy. "Now she feels stupid for believing me. Once bitten, twice shy. Remember that with her, all right?"

Harry's expression grew . . . enlightened, Cedric supposed he'd call it, as if he suddenly understood what had happened earlier. Cedric nodded to himself. Maybe it was a small thing, but if he could smooth over Harry's argument with Cho, it might make up a bit for what he'd done to Cho that autumn. "You never did talk to her, did you?" Harry asked him now.

Cedric shook his head. "Wouldn't matter. Wouldn't change anything -- might just make her feel worse. It was nothing she did. And nothing she could have done would have made it work."

Harry seemed puzzled. Perhaps because Cho was his dream girl, he couldn't imagine why she wasn't Cedric's too. "But if you really tried, then why not? You liked her once, didn't you? You weren't lying all along, were you?"

And how did Cedric explain? "I wasn't lying, no . . . " He trailed off, reminded of his conversation with Hermione about Ron and the Yule Ball, and that even if Ron had asked her, she'd still be with Cedric now, the same as Hermione had torn him from Cho. "I don't know how to explain it to you. I liked -- and like -- Cho; she's a sweet girl. I mean that sincerely. But Hermione is . . . Hermione. It's a meeting of minds, it's chemistry, it's . . . I don't know." He grinned. "What we've got feels like a force of nature sometimes -- magnitudes stronger than anything I've ever felt for anyone else. Even when I'm angry with her."

They continued on then. "Where's Ron?" Cedric asked after a bit.

"Quidditch practice. Where are your mates?"

"Ed's with Susan, Scott's probably getting himself into trouble with whichever girl fancies him this week and Peter . . . I don't know. Probably trying to keep Scott _out_ of trouble."

Harry laughed, and led Cedric towards Honeydukes. Cedric bought fudge after all (and bought a little for Hermione). Harry stocked up on sweets for himself and Ron, then they wandered about, the first occasion they'd actually spent time together that didn't have a specific purpose. Other students cast them curious glances and Cedric wondered what they thought they saw. The Triwizard champions? Survivors of Voldemort? The school nutcases? Yet none of that was reflected in what they discussed, which involved Quidditch, brooms, Muggle television, pizza, and a rather odd, rather long digression about hexes versus charms. Only once did they make reference to what had happened to them in June, and that on the way back. Harry walked beside Cedric who used the Locomotor charm on his chair. He could have transfigured and flown back, but that would've been rude to Harry.

"Thanks for doing that interview with me," Harry said. "It was -- I don't know -- easier. With two."

"It needed to be done, I think. And yeah, it was easier with two."

Harry was rubbing his scar; he'd been doing that rather a lot off and on all day. "How are the Occlumency lessons going?" Cedric asked.

"They're going."

"Are you making progress?"

"I don't know." Harry's response was sharp. "Doesn't much feel like it."

"Just a question, Harry. Not an accusation. I worry about you."

"You and everybody else." Harry sounded defensive, his jaw set and stubborn.

"I said I worry -- not that you can't take care of yourself. You took care of yourself rather well last June." Cedric shrugged. "Friends worry about friends."

Harry glanced at him. "Sorry."

"S'okay."

Harry frowned, eyes on the roadway in front of them. "I worry about you too," he admitted. "Umbridge hates me, but I don't know -- I think she really has a bone to pick with you, like you and Dumbledore are her 'special project.' Last December -- "

Now it was Cedric's turn to frown and interrupt. "She's been ignoring me so far."

"Maybe it'll stay that way," Harry replied mildly.

* * *

When Hermione argued with Cedric, there was no explosion of fireworks followed by a bout of mad kissing and making up. No, he _aggravated_ her, made her stomach roil, and he seemed to feel the same. So they circled each other for a while warily, and as a result, didn't have their Valentine's Day until three days after the fact. Then again, it would've been difficult to have had much of one on Saturday as Umbridge seemed to take a perverse pleasure in stalking halls, hoping to catch couples _in flagrante delicto_. If she assumed Hermione and Cedric would be among them, she was foiled. Hermione didn't speak to him until dinner Sunday night. Afterwards, she went to the school Common Room, thinking he might be there. But he wasn't. Disappointed, she spread out her books on a table and set to work, in case he might show up.

Somewhere around half past seven, there was a disturbance near one of the doors and she looked around. Zacharias and Peter were hauling Cedric into the room, supported between them, reluctant but laughing. Peter had the Cup under his arm. It reminded Hermione of the afternoon Cedric had put his name in the Goblet of Fire, although that time it had been Peter and Ed dragging him in there. Cedric wasn't naturally forward.

Now, Hermione watched as Peter and Zach escorted him towards the end of the long hall that opened on the trophy room. A special plinth had been set up just outside, topped by a Doric capital. In front of it, Peter and Zack let Cedric go, and Zach gave Cedric back his crutches as Peter handed over the softly glowing Cup.

Shifting his weight to take it, Cedric stared at the Cup a minute, then reached up to set it on the plinth -- all without a word. Applause broke out behind him and he turned to face the crowd -- caught Hermione's eye and smiled slightly. She smiled back before returning to her table where she was working. He talked to others for a bit, then came to lower himself into a seat beside hers. Pulling a wrapped brick of Honeydukes fudge out of his book bag, he set it in the middle of her parchment. "For you." She stared at the fudge a moment, then grinned and pulled the fudge she'd bought _him_ out of her bag. Laughing, he broke off a chunk, then with one arm draped along the back of her chair, nibbled fudge and read while she made notes.

Tuesday night they met in the Room of Requirement. He had pearl earrings for her to match her necklace. She had a gold signet ring for him. It had belonged to her mother, and bore a 'D' for her mother's maiden name**: **'Darcy.' Hermione found it serendipitous that his last name was 'Diggory.' He took it with appropriate solemnity and put it on his left hand, though it fit only his little finger and barely that. Fortunately his fingers were narrow. "Is that romantic enough for you?" she asked, arms around his neck, straddling his lap where they sat on the bed, though he couldn't embrace her like that. He needed his arms to prop himself up. He wasn't able to sit without support any more than he could stand. At first, she'd been frustrated by what they didn't have that other couples did, but she'd grown used to it. This was just them, and she was content.

Now he kissed her nose and smiled. "It means a lot, poppet."

They got naked after that, but seemed to have reached a plateau, and he asked her for nothing more than they'd shared before Valentine's Day. She didn't think either of them was ready to go further. Instead, she examined his bare body from crown to toes. She might have been more embarrassed by her frank curiosity, but he seemed to like being looked at, or at least didn't mind it; her Cedric was a bit vain. "Are you cataloguing me, Granger?"

"Mmm," she replied drawing fingertips over the skin covering his hipbone, so pale she could see the blue veins beneath. "Never know when I might have to identify a headless body."

He laughed at that. "You're morbid!"

They had such strange conversations sometimes. She liked it.

The next day, the ploy with the Triwizard Cup paid off. Once word got out, students slowly began trickling back in to see it, but still conspicuously without any green-and-white. It wasn't Zabini who brought back Slytherin, however, but a small band of second years who sidled in, trying to mimic the hauteur of their House elders and failing miserably. They gathered around the Cup, pointing and talking excitedly, then stayed to study. Zabini had set enough of a precedent that the boundary was broken, and by the Gryffindor-Hufflepuff match the next Saturday, the Hogwarts Common Room could once again be called a _Hogwarts_ Common Room.

Hermione met Cedric at breakfast. Predictably, he was decked out in yellow and black, while she sported gold and crimson. They made friendly faces at each other and after, he flew down to the Pitch while she walked there with Harry. By the time she arrived, Cedric was already ensconced in one of the stadium towers, surrounded by rowdy Hufflepuffs. He tried to wave her up to join him, but that was _high_, and she wasn't especially interested in being a lone Gryffindor among all those badgers, so she shook her head and stuck out her tongue. It made him laugh, and they sat in their respective sections and cheered their respective teams. Poor Ron had been so terrified at the prospect of facing Hufflepuff's Golden Trio, he barely managed to block any goals at all, and it was another massacre until Ginny caught the Snitch. Even so, Hufflepuff won, and they were beside themselves, Ed Carpenter the hero of the hour.

Fortunately -- Zacharias Smith aside -- the badgers were more inclined to celebrate together than pose or preen or ridicule Gryffindor. Ed even made a point of shaking not just Angelina's hand afterwards, but that of every member of the Gryffindor team. "He's become a good Captain," Hermione said to Harry. "Cedric chose well."

"I thought Hufflepuff elected?"

"They do. But Ed's Captain because Cedric nominated him."

Harry was more morose about the loss than Hermione, and had hands in his pockets, head lowered as they exited the stands. "I remember him being the big guy in Cedric's shadow last year, and the year before. He wasn't very nice to me."

"He's protective of Cedric," Hermione said. "And he and Peter really did believe you rigged the Goblet somehow. Don't blame them too much; they both know better now. And Ron would have been the same if positions had been reversed."

Harry glanced over sharply. "You wouldn't?"

"Maybe at first, but I'd like to think I'd've asked more questions when things didn't add up. That's not a failure of loyalty, Harry."

He didn't reply, and the two of them waited outside the stadium gate for Ron and Ginny. Most of the crowd had returned to the castle, and without anybody around to overhear, she asked, "Could I borrow your map again tomorrow afternoon?"

Harry glanced at her. "That's the fourth time you've asked to borrow the map. What are you _doing_ with it?"

Hermione blushed because she'd rather depended on him _not_ asking. "Well, sometimes Cedric and I would like to have a bit of time alone together, and it's a way of knowing where Filch is -- or Umbridge, or Snape for that matter." She thought that enough information.

Harry stared a moment, then laughed. "Don't tell me Cedric is 'more of a physical being,' like Krum, and it just means he doesn't talk much. I know better." Hermione swatted his arm in answer, but doubted he had any real idea of what she and Cedric did in the Room of Requirement. Harry was even more naïve than she'd been.

* * *

"You told me to tell you if I keep having dreams," Harry said softly, plopping down beside Cedric at the Hufflepuff table for Sunday lunch. Cedric glanced over, eyebrows up. "Well, I keep having them. Every night almost. It's the same corridor, leading to the Department of the Mysteries. Last night, I almost got inside."

"Occlumency seems to be making it worse, not better," Cedric said, struggling to keep out any hint of emotion that Harry might take as an accusation.

Harry shrugged. "Yeah, I suppose. But, well, you wanted me to tell you."

"I did. Thanks. And Harry, if you get through the door, be sure and tell me what happens. There's got to be something about it . . . "

Nodding, Harry rose to leave, hesitated, then added, almost mumbling, "You and Hermione be careful. Even with the map. Just . . . be careful."

Mouth a little open, Cedric watched Harry's retreating back, wondering what Harry knew, or thought he knew. When he asked Hermione later, she admitted that Harry had finally asked her why she kept borrowing his map. "I didn't lie. Exactly," she finished. "I just didn't tell him everything. The details are none of his business."

After stealing half of Sunday with her (most of which had been spent lying together and talking, not almost-shagging), Cedric arrived at breakfast on Monday cheerful and ready to face the week. Winter quarter hadn't turned out half as dreadful as he'd feared. It was almost the end of February and they had only four more months. That those months would include increasing homework and hellacious NEWTs didn't matter when compared to the prospect of escaping Umbridge at the end.

Madam Toad still watched Cedric at meals and in the hallways, and she walked past the double desk he shared with Peter in her class more often than was necessary. But otherwise, she let him be and he gave her no reason to discipline him.

That Monday, he was taking a bite of cereal when the first letter dropped in front of him, then a second, third and fourth. Soon, he had a whole stack of mail. Sitting back on the bench, he just stared while Scott muttered, "What the bloody fuck?" from his place across from Cedric. Both Peter and Ed picked up letters to check the return addresses.

When a final owl landed a flat package in brown wrapping atop the pile, Cedric finally understood, and turned to the Gryffindor table. Harry had a similar pile, half-again as large, and was looking over at Cedric, while a delighted Hermione tore open Harry's own brown-wrapped package.

Cedric and Harry exchanged a smile.

"That interview must have been published," Peter was saying beside Cedric, who turned back to collect his own flat package.

"Yes," he said, opening it, "I expect so." Unfolding _The Quibbler_, a big, center headline announced**:**

**HARRY POTTER SPEAKS OUT AT LAST:**  
**The Truth About He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named  
and the Night We Saw Him Return**  
**(with Cedric Diggory)**

"Bloody hell," Peter snarled. "Potter, Potter -- always bloody Potter!"

"It's all right," Cedric said, more amused than offended that his own name had been reduced to small print. "Harry _did_ do most of the talking. It's his story. I was just there to confirm it, and add a few more details."

"Still, Ced, without you, he'd have been too _dead_ to talk."

"Maybe. Maybe not. But I don't mind -- really. People want to read about the Boy Who Lived, not the bloke who almost bought it, right?"

Shrugging, Peter opened the letter he'd picked up, not bothering to ask permission first. But he'd fielded much of Cedric's fan mail the previous year. "This lady here," Peter said, scanning the note, "says she was rooting for you in the Tournament and didn't want to believe you'd lost your marbles, but the _Prophet_ made you sound positively dodgy. Now after reading your and Harry's story . . . she's _apologizing_, Ced. She says she's sorry she ever doubted you!"

Cedric smiled. "Maybe we'll manage to convince a few then."

He, Scott, Ed and Peter went through his mail, making piles of 'believe,' 'aren't sure,' and 'raving bloody barmy' (as Scott put it). In the middle of doing so, they heard a "Hem, hem," behind them, and Peter made such a convincing frog croak that Cedric almost choked on his coffee.

The four of them turned -- but Umbridge wasn't looking at them. She was standing over Harry Potter, whose stack of mail was now twice as large as Cedric's. "Why have you got all these letters, Mr. Potter?" Umbridge asked.

"Is that a crime now?" one of the twins asked loudly. "Getting mail?"

"Be careful, Mr. Weasley, or I shall have to put you in detention."

"Like that's anything new to them," Peter muttered while Scott and Ed were busy scooting Cedric's mail off the table and out of sight.

"No," Cedric told them. "Let it stay." He wasn't going to run from this; he'd made a choice.

"Well, Mr. Potter?" Umbridge was saying. The rest of the hall had gone completely quiet as they looked on.

Harry hesitated, then said, "People have written to me because I gave an interview. About what happened last June." He didn't, Cedric noticed, implicate Cedric in the interview, although as soon as Umbridge saw the magazine, she'd know Cedric had been involved.

"An interview?" Umbridge asked, voice rising in an oncoming fit of rage. "What do you mean?"

"I mean a reporter asked questions and I answered them. Here --" And the boy practically flung his copy of _The Quibbler_ at Umbridge. Cedric watched her scan it, her face going first pale then as red as a beet.

"Here it comes, here it comes . . . " Peter muttered behind him.

Spinning to look towards the Hufflepuff table where Cedric was sitting, her mouth worked silently. Cedric just smiled. Umbridge turned back to Harry. "When did you two do this?"

"Last Hogsmeade weekend," Harry replied.

"There will be no more Hogsmeade trips for you -- either of you!" Her voice dropped in volume. 'How you dare . . . how you could . . . " She trailed off. "I have tried to impress on you not to tell lies, but the message, apparently, has still not sunk in. Fifty points from Gryffindor -- and another fifty from Hufflepuff!" And she stalked away, taking Harry's copy of _The Quibbler_ with her. Peter had already hidden Cedric's.

Less than three hours later, there were new signs up on notice boards and in hallways:

_---- By Order of ----_

_THE HIGH INQUISITOR OF HOGWARTS_

_Any student found in possession of the magazine the Quibbler will be expelled._

_The above is in accordance with  
Educational Decree Number Twenty-seven_

Cedric snorted when he saw it. Hermione was standing beside him. "That's one certain way to ensure everybody will have read the interview by tonight," he said to her and she giggled, hugging his arm.

Umbridge stalked around the school between classes, demanding to check student bags. Even so, by dinner, there were so many contraband copies of the magazine disguised as something else, Cedric thought they could probably have wallpapered Flitwick's classroom with it. It amused him no end, although anytime someone asked him for a copy, he just replied, "A copy of _The Quibbler_? As Head Boy, I wouldn't have a _banned_ publication."

It got to be such a joke that after dinner in the Hogwarts Common Room, Scott put a sticking charm on a copy and hung it on Cedric's back. "He hasn't got one, he's just wearing it!"

Laughing, Cerdric tried to pull it off, but couldn't reach it. Hermione yanked it free and thrust it back at Scott. "Scott Summers, really! What if Umbridge had walked in here?"

Unrepentant, Scott just shrugged. "Well, she didn't, and who's going to grass on us?"

Indeed, the room that evening was filled with jubilant Gryffindors and Hufflepuffs, as well as some supportive Ravenclaws, including both Cho (who sat rather close to Harry, Cedric noted with satisfaction) and Ginny's Michael Corner. There was no sign of a single Slytherin tie. Cedric didn't think that good overall, although it probably was at the moment.

Horseplay calmed down after a bit and Cedric sat with Hermione on one of the sofas, chatting with Ed while Susan leafed through _The Quibbler_ that Scott had stuck to Cedric earlier, making funny faces at some of the more outrageous articles.

Zacharias Smith came tearing into the room, breathless. "She's coming!"

Susan actually squeaked, shoving the magazine under her sofa cushion before Cedric could grab it to Vanish it. Around the room, copies disappeared or suddenly became something else even as Umbridge stalked in, flanked by Draco Malfoy and Marius Montague. "What is this?" Umbridge demanded. Students simply stared back at her.

"What's what?" Roger Davies asked, sounding genuinely confused by the question.

"What are you all doing here on a Monday night when you should be at revisions or in your common rooms?"

Students blinked. "Er, this _is_ a common room," Angelina Johnson pointed out, looking around. "And, well, about half of us _are_ doing homework."

Umbridge's normally curled and neat hair appeared disheveled, and she bore a slightly wild look in her eye. Viciously, Cedric hoped Fudge had sent her a Howler about the interview. She was glaring around at faces, probably noting who was present. It involved the majority of the D.A., as well as a number of other students who enjoyed hanging about the fringes of the 'subversive' group. "I see Potter here, and Diggory too. There had better not be copies of _that_ magazine in this room! Or discussion of it! Turn out your bags! Every one of you! Draco, Marius, help me inspect bags."

Annoyed students complied, but copies of the magazine were either long gone or spelled. Frustrated, Umbridge and her minions searched in vain and she even made students stand so she could pat school robes and turn out pockets. She searched Harry and Cedric personally and Cedric tried not to flinch at her hands on him, running along his sides. "May I sit down?" he asked politely when she was finished.

"No," she snapped, but she wasn't looking at him. Instead, her eye fell on Susan -- who might be deceptively tough but lacked any ability at dissembling. Like a bloodhound, Umbridge homed in on her nervousness. "Turn out your pockets, Miss Bones."

Susan did so. They were empty, of course. Umbridge glared up into her pale, heart-shaped face, then turned abruptly to upend the sofa cushions.

_The Quibbler_ fell right out onto the floor, landing at Ed's feet.

Around the room, students went absolutely still as Umbridge pounced on it, then shook it under Susan's nose. "You know what this means!" she crowed. Susan appeared ready to faint. "And to think! Your own aunt is head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement! What will she say when she learns her precious niece has been expelled for possessing a banned publication!"

"I expect she'll say you lack conclusive evidence," Hermione replied.

Umbridge spun around to glare. "When did you become an expert in the law, Miss Granger?"

"I'm not, but I do understand _circumstantial_ evidence. Susan didn't have that magazine either on her person or in her book bag. Someone shoved it under the sofa cushions at some point today. Susan was only sitting nearby at the time you found it. Yet as we didn't know you'd be coming to conduct a search, if she'd been reading it, you'd have caught her with it in her hands, wouldn't you?"

Cedric was impressed. Hermione could lie through her teeth while looking as if butter wouldn't melt in her mouth. And Umbridge was stuck. Either she had to admit she hadn't caught them by surprise after all, and let her pride suffer, or she had to accept Hermione's reasoning. She turned back to Susan. "For being innocent, you certainly _look_ guilty, Miss Bones."

Susan's dark eyes were wide and she clearly wasn't at all sure what to say. Ed slipped an arm around her shoulders, "Susan's the one who cries when everybody else gets scolded for something she had no part in. She doesn't like to be in trouble, Professor Umbridge -- even by association."

"It's true," Cedric added -- because it was true, even if this time she'd been guilty as charged. "Susan's not been in trouble once since she arrived at Hogwarts."

Eyes cold, Umbridge turned to stare at him. "When I want your opinion, Mr. Diggory, I'll ask for it." She looked back at Susan. "Very well. In the light of your previously outstanding record, Miss Bones, we'll give you the benefit of the doubt. But be certain I'll be watching you in the future. And consider changing your circle of friends." She glared at Hermione, Cedric and Ed, then drew herself up to her full, unimpressive height.

"That said," she went on, "this room has clearly become a focal point for the more _fractious_ sorts at Hogwarts, and fosters a lackadaisical attitude towards studies -- not to mention it provides hiding places for illegal reading material. It is therefore my duty as High Inquisitor to _close_ it to students." There was a collective intake of breath and Umbridge turned to Cedric, her sick smile in place. "Clearly having a school-wide common room was a _very_ unwise decision."

"Why?" Cedric demanded. He knew he shouldn't say anything, shouldn't argue. They'd barely yanked Susan back from the precipice, and Umbridge was bound and determined to have her pound of flesh tonight. Yet he'd worked too hard to make this room viable and wasn't giving up without a fight. So he asked again, "Why? Look around you, professor. This isn't a den of subversive activity. It's a place where students from different Houses can work together, talk together, _study_ together. We all benefit. Hogwarts benefits. Yes, there may be a few students who misuse it -- but that's true of anything. The good far outweighs the bad."

Her eyes narrowed but the smile hadn't left her mouth. Hermione was gripping Cedric's forearm tightly as he balanced on his crutches. "Mr. Diggory, are you questioning my decision?"

"With all due respect -- yes, professor. I am."

Beside him, he heard Hermione's breath go out and could just imagine her closing her eyes. Behind Umbridge, Ed and Susan, Peter and Scott all wore terrified expressions, and in the distance, Draco Malfoy appeared positively gleeful.

Umbridge took a step closer to him. "You, who dared to give a forbidden interview full of lies -- "

"They weren't lies. And giving an interview to a reporter is not against school rules," Cedric pointed out, "or the Triwizard Champions would've been expelled last year. I gave several interviews in this very castle to the very same reporter."

"That was different! It had Ministry approval! _This_" -- she shook _The Quibbler_ under his nose -- "is rubbish and falsehoods! Outrageous!" Cedric blinked but didn't pull back, even when she slapped him across the face with it. The paper edges cut his cheek and all around them, students gasped.

That seemed to bring Umbridge back to herself before she could strike Cedric a second time. Taking a deep breath, she looked around. "This room will be closed. That is my decision as High Inquisitor. All of you have five minutes to clear out. Mr. Diggory -- you're not going anywhere."

The room emptied slowly as Cedric watched, and he felt all his joy and hope empty with it. Hermione gave his forearm one last squeeze before exiting with Harry and Ron. Peter very deliberately walked over to the plinth outside the trophy room, removing the Triwizard Cup. "Where are you going with that?" Umbridge demanded.

"It belongs to Cedric," Peter said sullenly. "Not the school." Umbridge couldn't argue, and Peter departed, leaving Cedric alone with Madam Toad.

When there was no one remaining but the two of them, Umbridge spoke softly. "I know Miss Bones was reading that magazine. Perhaps I can't prove it, but I know it. And I know you must have given it to her. You and that girl of yours think yourselves oh-so-clever, but I _will_ catch you yet. Be sure of it. In the meantime, you are gated. Again."

Anger pulsed through him more than fear as he wiped half-dry blood off his cheek. "If I may ask, what offense am I guilty of this time that merits such a severe punishment?"

"Defiance, Mr. Diggory. Bald, public defiance towards a Ministry-appointed representative."

"Expressing my opinion constitutes 'defiance'? Yes, I expressed it publicly, but I did so politely, professor. Is freedom of speech now forbidden?"

"This is a school, Mr. Diggory, not a public square. And I am here at the behest of Minister Fudge to return some semblance of decorum and order to a venerable institution sorely in need of stern direction. Obstruction of my duties here is the same as obstructing a Ministry investigation. This is not a game, young man, or a chance to demonstrate your popularity among your fellow students. Defy me again and your family will lose far more than just your father's cushy job."

Cedric felt cold streak through him like a rapid freeze. "What do you mean?"

She smiled, thin lips pulled wide. "Minister Fudge had him clear out his desk today."

His interview had caused his father to lose his _job_? It took everything in him to keep his expression bland. He wouldn't give the monster the satisfaction of seeing how her news ripped into him.

She studied his face. "What -- no reaction? No filial guilt? I don't suppose I should be surprised. Anyone as conceited as you couldn't be concerned with the fate of others, could you?"

Cedric remained silent.

"Very well. Go to your rooms. You may pick up your gate card from me in the morning. I'll give you half an hour to take a bath before I arrive to seal you in."

And she swept out.

Face frozen, Cedric went to his suite as ordered, slamming the door behind him. Esiban -- still sluggish with winter -- came waddling out to sit up on his hind legs and chirp a question at Cedric, who'd collapsed on the sitting room sofa, head in hands. "I made him lose his job," he told the raccoon. "I made my father lose his job." Esiban took a few bounds until he was perched on the sofa back, nosing Cedric's hair. After a minute, Cedric reached up to gather the animal in his arms, burying his face in Esiban's stiff fur.

It was, in fact, forty-five minutes before anybody arrived to lock him in his room, and it wasn't Umbridge. There was a knock on his door and he turned from where he was seated at his desk, dressed in pyjamas by then. "Enter."

Dumbledore opened the door. Umbridge stood beyond him in the hallway, protesting. "Peace, Dolores. I'll be certain to seal his door when I leave. Thank you." And he shut it in her face.

Cedric stared, then started to reach for his crutches but Dumbledore waved him to keep his seat, folding his tall frame onto the sofa himself. Cedric turned his chair so he could face the Headmaster. "Tea?" Dumbledore asked, waving his wand so that tea appeared in the air before Cedric, who took it. "A good cup of Darjeeling is a balm to the soul."

Unsure what to say, Cedric sipped tea. Dumbledore's face had grown serious. "I gather Professor Umbridge has told you the news?" His own cup in hand, he bent forward, "I'd have preferred it to be myself, but be that as it may, Cedric, you must not blame yourself for your father's actions."

"But it wasn't _his_ actions; it was mine. He lost his job because of _me_."

"No, he didn't, I assure you. Amos has always been one to stand by those he loves, whatever the consequences to himself -- and I'm quite sure Professor Umbridge didn't tell you the whole story. Would you like to hear it?"

Suddenly confused, Cedric cocked his head ever so slightly. "I suppose."

Dumbledore grinned; it looked surprisingly impish. "Well, as you may imagine, there was no little uproar when the March issue of _The Quibbler_ was published yesterday with your and Harry's interview. First thing this morning, Minister Fudge issued an interoffice memo, demanding that no employees bring copies of the magazine into work, then called your father into his office to ask how he planned to discipline you.

"Your father replied he might consider buying you a foe-glass because -- and I quote -- 'he seems to have a number of enemies who used to be friends.' The Minister was not much amused." Although it was clear from the smile on the Headmaster's face that he was. "After lunch, Amos returned with a box full of copies of _The Quibbler_, then stood in the middle of the Ministry forecourt, handing out free copies. The Minister was amused even less by that, I fear."

Cedric had put a hand over his face, mostly to conceal the fact he was grinning. "He didn't."

"Oh, he most certainly did. So you see, Cedric, _your_ actions did not result in your father's sacking. Amos chose to support your choices because he agrees with them, and is proud of your courage. Whatever you and I may think of his rather flamboyant demonstration" -- Dumbledore's lips were twitching -- "it was _his_ action that brought about the loss of his job, not yours. He knew what the result would be. I understand that when the order came down for him to vacate his desk, he already had it all packed up."

Dumbledore stopped then and studied Cedric a moment. "Do you feel better?"

Cedric shook his head. "Not really. But I don't suppose I can criticize. I got myself gated again for more or less the same sort of defiance."

"There are lines in the sand, Mr. Diggory -- lines we must draw and beyond which we cannot allow ourselves to step with our honor intact. You believe in your Common Room and felt compelled to defend it, just as you felt compelled to speak the truth about what you saw in the graveyard last June. That is not being defiant. Being defiant is a two-year-old who doesn't want to go to bed when he's tired. Being _resolute_ is standing one's ground even in the face of opposition. It's a man's virtue, not a toddler's vice." Dumbledore raised his teacup towards Cedric in a kind of salute. "And being resolute is one of Hufflepuff's most outstanding qualities, I do believe."

Dumbledore drained his tea and stood. "Well, I suppose I had best be going. Although two things before I leave. First, have you had any luck adding your name to the inside of the wardrobe?"

Startled, Cedric shook his head. Truth be told, he'd been so preoccupied, he'd forgotten all about it. "No, sir."

Dumbledore withdrew a rather sizable tome from a pocket somewhere in his robes. "That might contain a spell of interest to you then. And second" -- his face now turned grave -- "please look after Harry for me, should I be forced to depart. I trust that Mr. Weasley and Miss Granger would endeavor to do so as well, but you're a bit older and less rash -- yet not too old. I think Harry might come to you before he'd approach an adult."

Cedric nodded. "I'll do my best, sir."

* * *

On a Friday morning four days into Cedric's gating, Madam Pomfrey appeared at the door to Hermione's Arithmancy class. "Septima? So sorry to interrupt, but may I borrow Miss Granger?"

Professor Vector paused in her demonstration of a particularly tricky formula and nodded to the school nurse. "Of course, Poppy. Miss Granger, please be sure to get notes from a classmate."

"Yes, professor," Hermione replied, packing up book and parchment quickly, worried. These days, she could imagine only one reason Madam Pomfrey would want to see her. In the hallway outside, she looked up into the Healer's face. "Cedric?"

"He collapsed during History of Magic." Madam Pomfrey's face was drawn with concern. "I've had him taken to his room. I'd stay with him myself, but Professor McGonagall brought me a second year who somehow managed to turn his nose into a whistle." She rolled her eyes. "I'm not sure whether to be impressed or appalled. In any case, Cedric should have someone with him, but his condition is less critical."

"I'll be happy to sit with him." In fact, she'd be delighted however badly he was feeling. This second gating was, if possible, worse than the first and they'd barely had a chance to speak since Monday evening.

Pomfrey nodded. "Come with me."

She took Hermione up to Cedric's room only to find Professor Umbridge outside it. "Why was I not informed of Mr. Diggory's condition? And why is Miss Granger here?"

Madam Pomfrey straightened until she towered over Umbridge. "The Headmaster was informed," Madam Pomfrey replied. "I wasn't aware that seeing to the _medical condition_ of a student required the involvement of the High Inquisitor."

"When that student is currently under my punishment, it does."

"A punishment that I consider to be directly responsible for his collapse!" Pomfrey snapped. "As you have been informed -- repeatedly -- Mr. Diggory's condition means that excessive stress aggravates the curse."

"Then perhaps he should consider behaving himself better and he might find himself in less stressful circumstances," Umbridge replied sweetly.

Madam Pomfrey appeared to swell with indignation. "Cedric Diggory is among the best-behaved, sweetest boys I've had the pleasure to know in the past decade, Professor Umbridge. And I see most of them at one point or another. Now, please stand aside so I can see to my patient, as I have another waiting in the infirmary."

But Umbridge didn't budge. "You didn't explain Miss Granger's presence."

"She's here to watch over Mr. Diggory while I attend to the other boy."

Umbridge's eyebrows climbed towards her hairline. "I can stay with Mr. Diggory."

"No, you cannot," Pomfrey snapped. "You don't know the first thing about Cedric's medical condition, his potions, or caring for him. Miss Granger does."

"Miss Granger --"

"Miss Granger is my choice to attend Cedric. Now as I said, I have another patient _who needs my attention_. Would you prefer that I inform that boy's parents that the High Inquisitor thought herself enough of a medical expert to interfere with the performance of my duties? I understand they're Muggles and might consider a lawsuit. Or perhaps you'd prefer to deal with Lucy Diggory?"

Positively seething at being stood up to, Umbridge glared while Hermione concealed amusement. There was nothing like a thwarted medical expert (nurse, doctor, dentist, or _vet_, for that matter) to inform one of exactly what kind of idiot one was being.

After another moment, Umbridge stood aside and Pomfrey swept into the suite with Hermione at her heels. Tucked into bed, Cedric was under so much medication, he appeared unconscious. Pomfrey set out a series of small bottles at his bedside. "This is more of the strong Abdoleo. Give him three ounces at" -- she checked her watch -- "half past five, no sooner. The Restituo can be given at the same time. I doubt he'll feel like eating, but if he does, he shouldn't consume milk products as the stronger Abdoleo tends to cause nausea when combined with lactose."

Hermione nodded, aware of that already. "There are an additional two bottles of the strong Abdoleo here," Pomprey said, "and his morning dose of Restituo. Send a parchment plane if you need me." With a last glance at Cedric, she let herself out.

Hermione sat down on the side of the bed as Esiban picked his way over to her, standing on his hind legs expectantly. "Shouldn't you be asleep?" Hermione asked the raccoon, then sighed and unlocked the bedside table drawer to remove some of the treats Cedric kept there, handing them over one at a time. Esiban took each, inspected, then ate it -- four treats in all. "Now go and lie down," Hermione told him. But instead of leaping off the bed to settle into his crate, he waddled to the foot of the bed, turned around a few times, then lay between Cedric's legs. Sighing again, Hermione scratched his ears the same as she might Crookshanks. "You don't want to leave him alone either, do you?"

Cedric remained unconscious for the rest of the afternoon, and she could barely wake him at half-past five to take his medication. Dobby personally delivered her dinner and it was a measure of her anxiety that it didn't even occur to her to ask why he was wearing a whole stack of her knitted hats on his head. She ate at Cedric's bedside and when it came time for evening rounds, Peter showed up with a bag of personal effects to take the night shift.

Hermione showed him the medicines and related the instructions Madam Pomfrey had given. When she returned in the morning, she found Peter passed out on the sofa and a pile of towels in a corner for the house-elves to clear away, smelling strongly of sickness. "We had a bad night," Peter told her. "He was up four times -- threw up three of them. He's in so much pain, it's making him sick to his stomach and he can't keep down solid food of any kind. We tried water and broth this morning. So far, so good on that. I gave him more Abdoleo about an hour ago so he's out again. Next dose at noon."

"Go and sleep," Hermione told him. Fortunately, it was a Saturday. Levitating a comfortable chair into the bedroom, she settled down with a book. She had a feeling it would be a long day.

Cedric remained incapacitated until Sunday afternoon -- the longest attack he'd suffered yet -- and by the time he did rise, he was weak and shaky from lack of food as much as from pain. Although still gated until Tuesday morning, he stubbornly returned to lessons Monday and his teachers took extra care with him. He appeared rather fragile, and bowed again from the isolation. For all that he required a certain amount of personal privacy for his peace of mind and could happily go a whole day or more by himself, Hermione had noticed that he began to wilt if left alone _too_ long. He wasn't made to be a hermit.

On Tuesday morning, _The Daily Prophet_ arrived with a special editorial**:**

**Dumbledore: Digg-ing**  
**Head Boy's Grave?**

_Last autumn, we ran a story about the tragic aftermath of Triwizard Champion Cedric Diggory's wounding in which we asked if Headmaster Albus Dumbledore had saddled Diggory with more than he could bear by appointing him Head Boy. 'It seems cruel to place someone so chronically ill and dependent on medication in a position of such high stress and responsibility.'_

_That concern seems almost prophetic after Diggory's latest episode. The Head Boy's class attendance has been plagued all year by absences for 'medical reasons.' In December alone, he suffered three such. Now, not only are they increasing in frequency, but also in duration. Last Friday morning, Diggory collapsed during class and was rushed to his room, where he spent all weekend secluded. Although he was back in classes on Monday, several schoolmates have commented on his frail appearance. "These days, you'd never know he was a Triwizard Champion," said Daphne Greengrass, of Slytherin. Even his own Housemates are growing concerned. "He's like a shadow of himself," said Hufflepuff prefect Hannah Abbott. "The stress is terrible for him." Was it just such terrible stress that led Diggory to cheat in the school's Ravenclaw-Hufflepuff Quidditch match in early December? "Teens don't like disappointing their peers and mentors," said well-known Mind Healer Esther Rosier, author of _Managing Magical Teens**: **a guide for parents_. "It shouldn't surprise us that Cedric would do anything to please and impress those he believes look up to him. The expectations placed on a Head Boy are exceptionally high, even for a healthy person."_

_In fact, former Head Boy (1993-94) and current staff in the Minister of Magic's office, Percy Weasley told Prophet reporters, "It's just not possible to perform the duties [of Head Boy] if you're chronically ill. I've been dubious about this appointment ever since it was announced. It seems to be more evidence of Dumbledore's break with reality that he'd put someone in charge who's drug-dependent just because he supports Dumbledore's wild claims about You Know Who's so-called 'return.'" Indeed, a Ministry official with close ties to the 155-year-old Headmaster has remarked on his failing condition. "He was the one wizard You Know Who truly feared, but he's getting old. I'm not sure he's ready to admit his own limitations. Maybe he's not willing to see Mr. Diggory's either." Auror Franklin Williams was more blunt, "The old coot's gone senile."_

_Diggory, of course, recently participated with Harry Potter in an interview conducted by former _Prophet _reporter Rita Skeeter, whose reputation for integrity and journalistic standards rivals that of her present employer, _The Quibbler_, where the interview was printed._

_Shouldn't we spare this fragile youth -- once Britain's Triwizard Champion but who now finds getting out of bed to be a significant accomplishment -- any more suffering at the hands of a headmaster who clearly cares little for his students and still less for the school he directs? Diggory's increasing inability to attend his classes (or even to stay upright) makes it time to call for a new Head Boy at Hogwarts before this one winds up in a coffin, not just a wheelchair. _

"Cedric, they took me completely out of context!" Hannah cried, hurrying over after the morning post arrived. "They told me they were doing an article about what you're being put through! We're worried about you, but the _last_ thing we want is for anybody to take your place!"

Cedric waved a hand and pulled her down to kiss the crown of her head. "I know you didn't mean it like they made it sound."

Although privately, Hermione thought Hannah should have shown better sense than to talk to anybody from _The Prophet_ about Cedric. Hannah wasn't the fastest broom in the shed.

The next day, Hermione paused to look at Lucy Diggory's painting in the Entrance Hall. She did this every day, in fact, tracking the small changes. But today, the god had appeared at last.

Dappled, spindly-legged and shy, he stood beside his mother -- the doe Hemione and Cedric had seen before the holidays -- and he was adorable . . . absolutely, completely adorable**: **a sentiment echoed by every female student (and a few of the boys) who passed through the hall. In this form, neither human nor adult, he seemed fragile and innocent, and reminded her a little of paintings she'd seen of the Christ child. Yet a shadow always lay over both figures, born of a knowledge of what their futures held.

In the case of the fawn, it was quite literal. Poised beside his mother, he stood in partial shadow, a dim penumbra. But when Hermione stopped before the painting, the fawn took three steps forward until morning sunlight caught the irises of his great, sad deer eyes.

They were gray.

* * *

**  
****Notes:** Ridesandruns (a newspaper editor in RL) aided me in penning the editorial. A small matter of consistency -- in the book when Umbridge discovers Harry's interview, she not only takes points from him, but gives him detention again. Yet that same night, Harry is in the Gryffindor common room, and never seems to serve the detention later, either. Ergo, I simply left it out altogether. Cedric winds up in enough trouble without it. The actress used for the image of Umbridge is, in fact, the actress cast to play her in _Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix_.


	26. The Prefects' Bath

"Cedric."

Halting in the hallway outside Flitwick's classroom, Cedric turned to find Luna Lovegood approaching, smiling her vague smile. "Hullo, Luna."

"I didn't have a chance to speak to you last week," she said, "with that awful woman locking you up again. But I wanted you to know that issue of _The Quibbler_ with your and Harry's interview sold out in just two days. We had to go back to print. Twice."

Cedric couldn't help grinning at that. "I'm glad."

"Dad said to tell you 'thanks,' and that you and Harry can have a lifelong subscription."

Cedric's grin widened, albeit more in amusement than gratitude at the prospect of getting _The Quibbler_ for the rest of his life. At least it would be entertaining. "Please thank him for me, both for the subscription and for having the courage to run that piece in the first place. It meant a lot."

She tilted her head almost quizzically. "But of course. My dad believes in publishing articles that make a difference to people." And she drifted off like a bit of summer fluff on the wind, leaving Cedric still grinning behind her. Such an odd bird, but sharper than many people credited her. After the nasty article in _The Daily Prophet_ the day before, her words cheered him a bit.

Ever since yesterday, students had been eyeing him oddly, as if expecting him to collapse again at any moment. A few even ran to open doors for him. The first time it happened, he swallowed his irritation and thanked the person, and the second time, too. But the third time, he made an imperious gesture that knocked the door out of the girl's grip, slamming it back against the wall. The girl -- a third year from Ravenclaw -- stared at him, shocked, and he felt immediately badly. "Not quite dead yet," he told her, trying for humor, but wasn't sure she understood.

After that, people stopped opening doors for him.

They didn't, however, stop staring or whispering behind hands. And for three days after the editorial had been published, he received post from strangers offering him sympathy or advice, or even an occasional one that berated him. He let his mates sort it for him because he couldn't bear to, and wondered if he should reply to the kind letters at least. Finally, after a lengthy discussion with Hermione, Harry and Peter, he drafted what Hermione called a 'form letter' reply**:**

_Thank you for your concern. I'm deeply touched by the expressions of kindness from strangers worried for my health. But quite honestly, _The Daily Prophet _has exaggerated my condition. I'm not nearly as ill as that editorial led people to believe, and fully capable of carrying out my duties as Head Boy. There are students at Hogwarts who had the flu this winter and missed more classes than I have. My injury is not incapacitating, and I am dis-ABLED, not crippled._

That last was supplied by Hermione, a Muggle term that Harry grinned over and called -- to Hermione's annoyance -- "PC." (Cedric had thought "PC" was a computer, not a turn of phrase.)

_The editorial in _The Prophet _was aimed at presenting me as weak in order to cast doubt on my credibility as a witness -- mud-slinging, rather than a reasoned response to my account of He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named's return. Yet I assure you, my wits are not addled by either my injury or the medication for it. I invite you to think about current events and what _The Prophet _is NOT reporting, then read the interview that Harry Potter and I gave to _The Quibbler_. It was published by _The Quibbler _because _The Daily Prophet _fears printing the truth. Yet after reading what Harry and I experienced last June, I think -- frightening as it may be -- you'll see that our account provides answers to what _The Prophet _isn't telling the Wizarding World at large._

_Again, my sincere gratitude for your letter and well-wishes. They mean a great deal._

He duplicated it fifty-one times, but still signed every one of them. "You're so polite," Harry observed reading over Cedric's shoulder, then added, "and barking mad to think those'll make any difference."

"But they might," Cedric replied, shaking his hand as it was getting the cramps and glancing up at Harry. "Just like our interview might -- which is why it was worth doing. People need to be reached out to. It's not just telling the truth that matters, it's hearing the truth from somebody you believe you can trust. And trust isn't built anonymously. These people took time to write to me, so I'm doing the same -- even if it's duplicating the same letter. They deserve a reply, and if they get this back, they might feel that they know me just a little bit. And if they feel they know me, they might be more inclined to believe what I say, you see?"

Harry just blinked and rubbed his scar. "I suppose. You're really good as sussing people out, aren't you?" And rising, he wandered off, leaving Cedric still at the Hufflepuff table in the Great Hall, long after lunch on Sunday, signing letters. Peter and Scott were with him, folding the duplicated notes and passing them to Hermione, who addressed each.

They were almost finished when Professor Sprout glanced into the hall and spotted them. Coming over to see what they were up to, she scanned one of the letters. "I'm sending them to everyone who wrote to me after The Prophet editorial," Cedric explained. "Well, to everyone who wrote and was polite. I reckon it can't hurt -- assuming any of these make it out of the castle."

Sprout lowered the letter and grinned at him. "A reasonable worry. Of course, in accordance with Educational Decree Number 26, I'm not allowed to offer any comment on your letter, since it doesn't have anything to do with Herbology" -- her grin turned wicked -- "but I will say I'm headed into Hogsmeade shortly and could drop by the post office."

Cedric glanced at Hermione, then dug in the pockets of his robes, looking for coins to pay postage, but came up with only a galleon and a few sickles. Sprout put her hand over his and closed his fist. "Keep it. This is the least I can do, Cedric."

Over the next week, Cedric kept a low profile. Other excitement occupied the student body in any case, as Umbridge had a new victim -- Professor Trelawney. On Monday evening towards the end of dinner, the sudden sound of distraught wailing stirred the castle like an anthill. Students and teachers came running to see who was being murdered (given the volume of the shrieks), and Cedric exited the Great Hall along with most of his House, but was slow to arrive. Trelawney stood in the main entrance hallway, looking quite spectacularly _pissed_, Cedric thought, with her clothes all in disarray and a bottle of sherry in one hand, while Professor Umbridge smiled predatorily from the stair landing above. "You c-can't sack me!" Trelawney was screeching. "I've b-been here sixteen years! H-Hogwarts is m-my h-home!"

If Cedric had never much liked Trelawney as a teacher, seeing her humiliated was almost physically painful to him, and Umbridge's glee at her misery was palpable. "That sick _bitch_," he muttered to Peter beside him. Having no way to intervene, he turned quietly and headed down to the Hufflepuff common room because he simply couldn't watch any longer. Thus he missed the arrival of a centaur in the castle and only heard about it later -- and was perhaps less impressed than he should have been. Other things occupied his attention.

First, there was the matter of his father being out of a job. Cedric knew himself fortunate for having grown up without financial worries. If the Diggorys weren't Malfoys or Blacks or Crouches, they'd been comfortably well-off and Cedric didn't know what it meant to go hungry, or wear hand-me-downs, or lack for entertainment and opportunity. As an only child, if he'd needed something, he'd got it, and while he'd been properly grateful -- sometimes even a bit guilty for his fortune -- he'd also taken these things for granted. As a result, his father's sacking panicked him because he had no context for what to expect, and no experience dealing with want. His mother had a career, but it was far from steady or predictable. So as soon as he was free of his gating, he wrote home, asking concerned questions and offering various personal items that his parents could sell if they needed to, including his (very expensive) broom. Whatever Dumbledore had said, he continued to see the whole situation as fundamentally his fault, and would do what was needed to help out. Both parents wrote him reassuring letters, but Cedric worried nonetheless. Finding work after he finished school to help with bills now became a priority. His parents had given him everything. It was time to repay the debt.

Second, in the absence of a school-wide common room, the students finally seemed to appreciate having had one, and more than once, he overheard, "We could meet in the Common Room . . . oh, no, we can't, can we? Bugger Umbridge." Ironic that it would be closed on the eve of its success -- but Umbridge had been willing to overlook its existence only as long as he hadn't been able to make it work. Once all the Houses began using it, it became a threat, and he was strangely cheered by this backhanded evidence of his triumph.

Yet with the Common Room gone, seeing Hermione grew more difficult. They spent most of their time in the library -- or the Room of Requirement. He'd found baths weren't the only way to reduce his stress. If getting off with Hermione meant more to him than just the physical release, it _was_ that nonetheless. She'd become the only bright thing in his days.

They grew easy with each other on the big bed with the red sheets, fingers tracing skin and tangling in hair. He studied her as thoroughly as he studied Charms or Transfigurations, assembling the clues of her of sighs and giggles and indrawn breaths to discover how to please her. He was a clever detective, discerning that too direct a touch at the outset turned her off rather than the reverse. Handling a woman required finesse and small motions -- not to mention finding the right spot. He was delighted when she screwed up the nerve to take his hand and guide his fingers to the little nub of flesh at the top of her slit, whispering, "There. Right there." In his ignorance, he'd been focusing on the wrong place, and why had nobody _shown_ him that before? Too bashful to verbalize his gratitude, he thanked her by applying his complete attention to her suggestion, discovering how many different ways he could massage her and what her reaction was to each variation.

By contrast, he needed her to be more firm, and at one point, took hold of _her_ hand to demonstrate how to grip him tighter. "I won't break," he whispered. She was a clever detective too, and as experimental as he, discovering sensitive places he hadn't even known he had like the thin line of raised flesh running from his scrotal sac to the pucker of his anus. If she stroked him there and rubbed just the head of his prick, the exquisite dual sensation sent him wild. She seemed to take a perverse pleasure in winding him up quite thoroughly before pushing him over the edge.

Even so, there were things he didn't dare ask of her, afraid that what went through his head was too perverse and would disgust her. He didn't even have words for what he wanted, or not words he'd use. His mates teased him that he was a prude, but in truth, he was just put off by the vulgar. "Suck me" or "go down on me" repelled him, twisting the tender and vulnerable into the crass, and it was crassness that bothered Cedric most of all. He turned to his little black journal to find new words.

_There is a rhythm in the hitch of your breath that marks time in the  
percussive beat of arousal.  
My tongue flutters against slick skin, tasting the sharp, splintering bite of woman spice  
and your hips arch against my mouth, kissing me with intimate lips._

Not that he'd done any such thing. But he dreamed of doing it, even as he feared she'd be revolted if he tried.

Yet more than just his possibly deviant fantasies worried him. His previous experience at intercourse had involved girls with more experience than he, and he'd never made love to a virgin. How badly would it hurt her? And what if he turned out to be so terrible she never let him touch her again? He didn't think he'd been especially good with Zoë -- too ignorant, too shy, and too much of a two-push Charlie. But he'd learned a few things since, and some of it, he'd learned from Hermione. That was what he liked best about taking their time. He was finally figuring out how to please a girl -- at least this girl. But he wanted their first sex to be perfect for her; he just didn't know how to make it so.

He wound up getting advice from an unexpected source.

"So, it's been six months and the two of you disappear _somewhere _on a pretty regular basis. You got your leg over yet?" The question was more curious than outright prurient, nonetheless Cedric's back straightened and he glared at the questioner. Preoccupied shelling sunflower seeds, Scott ignored him. "Well?"

Cedric started to say it was none of Scott's business, but if he did, Scott would assume they _had_ done it. "No," he said instead.

"No?" Scott's head came up in surprise. "Six _months_ and 'no'?"

"First, she's sixteen. Second, we're taking it a bit slow, if that's all right with you."

Popping a seed in his mouth, Scott snorted at Cedric's sarcasm. "It's your blue balls."

Annoyed, Cedric replied, "I don't have blue balls," before he realized what he'd just admitted to.

Scott was grinning. "Well, it's good to know you're not _that_ restrained."

Cedric gave him the two-fingered salute, and he laughed. They were sitting outside between classes, and for once Hermione wasn't hovering. Neither were Ed or Peter. Otherwise, Cedric might never have found the courage to ask, "You ever been with a virgin?" Although almost as soon as he asked it, he wanted to bite his tongue. Nonetheless, if any of his mates might have the experience he lacked, it'd be Scott.

Scott's expression was a bit surprised. "Maybe. Once or twice." His face turned thoughtful. "Not a very good experience -- which is why I've got a policy now of _not_ doing it with virgins."

"Yeah, well, good for you that you can pick and choose."

Scott shrugged. "You're the one who insists on wrapping himself around the same bird for months on end."

"I'm going to laugh my head off on the day you meet the right girl, Summers. You won't know what hit you."

"Nope," Scott replied. "I was born to be a bachelor, me."

Chuckling, Cedric shoved at his friend, who shoved back. Then Scott returned to his sunflower seeds and Cedric to people watching. After several minutes had passed, Scott said, "Virgins are a bit tough. You got to take your time, yeah?" Cedric didn't reply, just turned his head to look at Scott, whose face was surprisingly serious. "Be sure she's ready for you, all right? Good and wet and relaxed. Get her a little tipsy, if you can manage it -- not drunk, just tipsy. It'll stop her from being too nervous. An ale or two's not a bad idea for you, either -- just be sure you're not too pissed to poke, you know? But if it slows you down a bit, well, that's good.

"It'll hurt her," he went on conversationally, not looking at Cedric, who was too shocked to react. "So after you get inside, stop, you know? Let her get adjusted to you. That's why you don't want to come too fast. In and out before you know it doesn't give her any time before it's all over. Wank beforehand if you have to. And use your fingers to stretch her out a bit. There's a spot inside if you can find it -- you rub that and she'll go nuts. Put your thumb on her clit and two fingers inside, near the entrance -- about an inch in. Feels sort of rough and swells up. Rub that. Can't do it too soon -- have to get her all worked up first -- then she'll love it. Make her come before you go inside her because she won't come once you are -- not the first time, and maybe not the second or third, either. Just, you know, be prepared for that. It gets better. Oh, and put her on top -- probably make it all easier. Don't forget her tits; girls like having their tits sucked when you're doing it."

Sure his face was now scarlet, Cedric was at once enormously embarrassed, quite surprised, and extremely grateful. He'd never had anyone be so straight with him; it wasn't something most people talked about, not even Scott normally. Cedric's father's attempts to explain the facts of life had been an awkward exercise in allusion. He suspected his mother would have been more straightforward, but she'd thought that discussion in his father's purview. Yet he'd just learned more in five minutes from Scott than from anyone else ever.

"Thanks," Cedric said now.

"Any time," Scott replied, grin impish once more.

"Give me some of your bird food," Cedric said, holding out a palm. Scott poured seeds into it.

* * *

"Happy half year."

A small, wrapped present sailed over her shoulder to settle down in front of Hermione at the breakfast table. Grinning, she twisted her neck to look up at Cedric. "Softie," she told him fondly and leaned in to peck him on the lips as he sat down beside her. Across the table, Seamus and Dean both made gagging noises. In reply, Cedric sent Seamus' spoon sailing three feet down the long table with a wave of his hand.

"Hey!" Seamus protested, pulling his wand to Summon back the spoon. "Prat."

"Get your own girl and you might be less jealous, Finnegan."

"Who said I was jealous, Diggory?"

Cedric just laughed and collapsed his crutches so he could wrap an arm around Hermione, who leaned back into him for a moment then straightened and picked up the present. "You didn't have to --" she said softly for a measure of privacy from the boys across the table.

"I wanted to. It's nothing big."

She was glad of that, as it hadn't even occurred to her to get anything for him. For that matter, she'd have had a hard time deciding on a _date_ to mark the beginning of their relationship. Cedric had apparently decided to count from her birthday and their first kiss, which was probably safe.

Now she untied the bow on the little box and opened it, only to have a dozen fairies come streaking out in a rainbow of lights and neon-brilliant wings, tumbling around in front of her face for a few moments before winking out in a fall of gold dust. It made her laugh and remember the treasure hunt he'd set her six months before. He had more sophisticated charms now, but she was glad a Charm was all it had been. It let her enjoy it without feeling too guilty. Across the table, Seamus and Dean were gaping.

"I dunno if that's more impressive, Diggory, or more poncy," Seamus said.

"And that," Hermione told him primly, "is why you _don't_ have a girlfriend. You wouldn't know a romantic gesture if it bit you."

"Might depend on where it bit me," he replied, which made Hermione tsk and Cedric snort.

Still mildly guilty, Hermione had a flash of inspiration as they walked to class after breakfast. "You get your present later," she told him.

Face suddenly alight, his eyebrows went up. "Oh? You have something for me too?" He sounded so pleasantly surprised that she kicked herself inwardly. She really needed to remember how much such small, simple gestures pleased him. She'd always felt a bit ridiculous about making them, but Cedric's joy in holding hands where everyone could see or a chaste, public kiss was teaching her to enjoy it too. There was something ironic, she supposed, in the pragmatic girl winding up with the romantic boy who all the other girls wanted.

"Yes," she said, "after a manner of speaking. I have plans. Let's leave it at that."

But of course he didn't, and proceeded to pester her for the rest of the day like a child on Christmas Eve. She told him nothing and disappeared after dinner, cornering Harry in the common room. "I need your map and cloak tonight, if I may."

Sighing, Harry just glared at her from behind his glasses. "I might as well leave the map with you and come to get it when I need it."

Hermione avoided replying, 'That would probably make sense,' as Harry was clearly _perturbed_, not just being practical. "I'll have both back to you by tomorrow morning," she said instead, adding, "It's six months," in explanation.

"Six months what?"

She rolled her eyes. "Cedric and I have been together for six months. Well, publicly together. We've actually been together a bit more than that but . . . " She trailed off, seeing Harry's eyes go out of focus in that way which said he'd stopped listening. "Anyway, I wanted to do something special."

"Do I want to know what it is?"

"We're going for a swim in the prefects' bath."

_"Together?" _He eyed her a moment, then flushed and said, "Hermione, he hasn't . . . you know, I mean, he's not, well, um, 'special' doesn't mean -- er . . . he's not _pushing_ you, is he? He's older, and . . . " Helpless to be more specific, Harry trailed off and she wasn't sure whether to burst out laughing or blush.

"He's not pushing me, no. He's always been very considerate, never asked me for anything I wasn't ready to do."

A month ago, she'd have been reluctant to admit how much she _was_ ready to do, but had changed her mind since then. She needed someone to know, and while Ginny might have been the logical choice, Ginny would want details and Hermione wasn't ready to give them. Ron . . . just -- no. Ron would do something stupid like challenge Cedric to a duel and wind up in hospital (or Cedric would, trying not to hurt Ron). But Harry . . . Harry would be too embarrassed to ask for details, and he'd learned to trust her, not try to protect her when she didn't need to be protected.

Now, he stared at her, attempting not to gape. "Er -- I don't know how to take that. He hasn't . . . well, I mean -- erm, _have you_? It's a _bath_."

"And I have a swimsuit." She raised her eyebrows. "Besides, I love him, he loves me, and it's hardly a casual fling for either of us."

Harry still looked a bit taken aback. "As long as he treats you well . . . just, you know -- if he _doesn't_, he'll have to deal with you and me both."

She hugged his neck. "Absolutely. And thank you."

Being a Friday, students stayed up later than usual, but Hermione pretended to turn in early, taking time alone in her dormitory to prepare everything she'd need. By midnight, her roommates were all in bed but she waited another half hour to be certain they were fast asleep. Creeping out from under the covers, she stuffed clothes beneath to make it look as if she were still there, took the cloak, map and her bag, and slipped out of her room. Down the stairs and through the common room, she escaped Gryffindor Tower altogether.

She encountered no difficulties getting to Cedric's room, and let herself in as silently as she could, glad he hadn't spelled his door locked. But the candles in the chandelier overhead were still lit and Cedric sat at his desk, dressed in pyjamas. He looked up when the door opened, unsurprised, and smiled as she pulled off the cloak. "You're awake!" she said.

"You told me you had something planned; I was just waiting, Granger."

She should have known better than to think she'd catch him by surprise. He was eyeing the dressing gown she wore and she turned her back to him, undoing the belt and then shrugging it off before turning back. His lips curled. "Very sexy, Granger. Do I get to take that bikini off you now?"

She rolled eyes, huffing. "You have a one-track mind, Cedric. We're going _swimming_."

"Yeah, seeing the bikini, I sort of gathered that. Still, do I get to take it off you?"

Mildly annoyed but mostly amused, she headed into his bedroom to dig through his clothes shelves in the wardrobe. After a moment, she heard the clunk of his step. "Did you bring swimming trunks this time?" she asked.

"No. Why would I? I expected last autumn to be a one-shot."

"You'd make a terrible Boy Scout, Cedric. Not the least prepared, are you?"

"A terrible . . . what?"

"Never mind." She raised up to glare at him, hands on hips.

He was leaning into his crutches, watching her with a devilish grin on his face. "I don't think I need swimming trunks. Not any more than you need that suit. You could just remove it now and spare me the trouble." He waggled his eyebrows, looking entirely too comical.

It made her laugh. "And deprive you of the challenge of getting it off me?" She headed into his toilet. "Come on. It's late enough as it is."

She heard him call, "Wait, Granger." And she peeked back out. He had her dressing gown and the cloak in hand. "We need to put these in my bed, same as last time -- be safe."

She did as he suggested, adding her bag with its change of clothes too. It all went under his covers, then they made their way into the bath together. He'd pulled his shirt off but left his pyjama bottoms while she turned the taps on. Coming back to join him by the stairs, she smiled up into his face and accepted his kiss while her fingers slipped under the waistband of his bottoms and underpants, pulling them both down over his hips and legs and helping him get them over his braces. She reached for the braces too, but he said, "No."

Sighing, she replied, "Cedric, don't be absurd. Just let me do it."

"I don't --"

"You've let me touch every inch of you _except_ the metal on your legs." She looked up from where she knelt on the marble in front of him. From this angle, he looked very tall, and she was rather uncomfortably conscious of his groin at level with her head. He was half erect, but appeared to be deflating rather than the reverse.

After a long pause, he croaked out, "All right. Fine."

She had no idea why he was so touchy about this, but he needed to get over it. She tapped the braces as she'd seen him do, releasing the Conform spell so they ungripped his legs, becoming simple metal and leather again. Then he lowered himself to the marble and let her take them off. Then she crawled up his body to kiss him, an act of reassurance as much as gratitude for his trust. He got hold of her and undid the back of her bikini so it fell away from her body, held up only by the tie about her neck. He undid that too while kissing her, and tossed it aside, a bit of purple cloth on white stone. His hands cupped her breasts and she moaned, wondering if they'd make it into the bath, which was only half full. "This marble is cold," he told her.

She nodded, and got off of him, standing up, still in her bikini bottoms, and headed for the water. He scooted over until he reached the stairs, lowering himself onto the top step while he watched her descend into the bath. She wondered why she was still wearing the bottoms. It seemed a bit silly as she'd already lost her top and he didn't have a stitch on him. His grin widened and he launched himself out into the water after her, half-full bath or not.

She wasn't the swimmer he was, even with two good legs, and he caught her halfway across, pulling her close. The water was high enough now for them to float there together. He got her bottoms off, tossing them up on the marble beside her top, and they kissed while the bath filled, then hurried to turn off the taps before it overflowed. The air was rich with bubble-bath perfume and he sank under the surface while she squealed in mock fright, pushing off a wall to flee his inevitable underwater attack . . . didn't make it. He pulled her beneath and had her wrapped up in his arms before she could squirm free, pushing her to the bath floor. Then she realized she could _breathe_.

He'd cast a Bubblehead Charm big enough for two, at least for a little while. They lay on the bottom underwater, kissing and running hands all over each other. If their previous swim had been full of innocent play, this one was far more intentionally erotic. She'd come here tonight not sure exactly how far she'd let him go, but toying with the idea of just getting it over with so she could stop worrying about losing her virginity. After all, they both knew it was going to happen; it was simply a matter of when.

So now, she shifted up a little to wrap her legs around his hips under the water so that his erection was pressed into her crotch, and felt more than heard his gasp.

Then he was letting her go and twisting away from her, pushing up for the surface. Deprived of the bubble, perforce she had to follow. Head breaking the surface, she gasped for air. He'd moved off towards one edge of the bath and she joined him. His expression was a little desperate. "Don't do that," he said. "It's . . . I'm trying to control myself, Hermione."

Smiling, she moved closer, arms going around his shoulders so their bodies were pressed together again. "Maybe you don't need to," she whispered, reminding herself of Christmas Eve when she'd first given him permission to go further.

One arm on the edge of the bath, he caught her around the waist with the other. "Not tonight," he whispered, "not yet," making her face, ears, and neck flush. She suddenly felt like a cheap whore for having offered only to be put off. Yet he was smiling at her with an expression full of anything but disgust**:** wonder, anticipation -- love. She stopped worrying. "I want it to be more special than this," he told her. "Do you trust me?" Bemused, she nodded. "Then come over to the steps." And he let her go, heading for the steps himself in a breaststroke.

She followed, letting him settle her on his lap when she got there. His stiff cock rubbed against her naked bottom and he shifted her until it settled between her cheeks, which felt a bit peculiar but she suspected it felt good to him so she rubbed back against him, making him moan. "Stop," he whispered, arms snaking around her to hold her still against him. "This is about you, not me."

"What if I want it to be about you?" she replied and felt him smile against her neck.

"Later." He kissed her nape. "Trust me?" he asked again. She nodded once more. "Relax against me then. Close your eyes."

She did as he ordered while his hands moved across her body, over her shoulders, down her arms and up her sides to curve over her breasts. He spiraled fingers inward, round and round, not quite touching her nipples although she unconsciously arched her chest up. Even in the warm water, her skin tingled, and when he finally let fingertips cross puckered nubs, she gasped, arching more.

He played with both for a while, kissing her neck and ear as she ran short nails up and down his thighs, spreading her own legs a little. She wanted him to touch her between them, but he resisted, still concentrating on her breasts until she thought she might come just from that. Reading her expression of impending climax, he took his hands away. Completely. "Oh!" she hissed, "you _tease_." He laughed against her neck. After perhaps a minute, his hands came back, one gripping her hip and the other sliding across her vulva, making circling motions. She arched up and he took the hand away. "Cedric!" She opened her eyes to glare over her shoulder at him.

"Ah-ah," he said. "Eyes shut."

She shut them again, and he went back to massaging her with his palm, letting it go on for several minutes before slipping fingers between her lips. "Oh," she gasped. "Oh, _God_."

"Like that?"

"Please . . . keep . . . oh, _yes_." Not very coherent, but he obeyed her wishes, his fingers moving slowly, hand still gripping her hip although she really wanted him to move it to her breast. Unable to ask for that -- embarrassment always sealed her lips -- she reached for his wrist, but he resisted her tugs. "Guh!" she said in frustration and felt him laugh again as his fingers increased their pressure. She began rocking her hips so that it rubbed him, and he grunted, twitching against her bottom. "Serves you right," she muttered, dragging nails over his thighs again.

The hand on her hip moved down to hook under her knee, pulling it upward a little. "Trust me," he whispered, so she relaxed and let him hold her leg up. His other hand moved to slide along the whole slick length of her, back and forth, back and forth, until just the tip of a finger entered her. She resisted tensing and the finger was gone almost before she realized it had been there, moving back to her clit and rubbing. She went back to rocking. But now every few minutes, he let the fingers slide down, dipping into her a little deeper each time. She lifted her leg further to grant him access. He was humming against the back of her neck, hand releasing her knee finally to find her breast. He stroked her nipple while the fingers of his other hand alternated between her clit and her vagina, never entering far until, abruptly, the finger slid all the way in and as excited as she was, it surprised her more than hurt. She clenched around him. "Relax," he whispered.

His thumb was against her clit, his other hand gently pinching her left nipple, and she relaxed almost involuntarily, bucking against him. He moved his finger in and out a few times, then abruptly there were _two_. And that . . . wasn't entirely comfortable. "No more," she whispered.

"That's enough for now," he agreed, not moving the hand in-and-out, but still working his thumb and the other hand at her breast until she stopped clenching. He was rubbing against her inside too, and it felt good enough to make her whine, but two fingers left her feeling _stretched_ as well, so after a bit, she tugged on his wrist and he withdrew his fingers.

Before he could do anything else, she twisted in his grip so that she straddled him as she had earlier, feeling him hard all along her hypersensitive groin. As she rubbed on him, she watched his head fall back, mouth open. The water was as warm as their blood and she was very slick from his fingers inside her; his stiff cock was almost as good as those fingers, driving her up towards orgasm. But she'd underestimated how excited he was, and how bare groin to groin would set him off. He was suddenly spasming against her and this way, she could _feel_ it as he ejaculated. Teeth clenched and eyes squeezed shut, he muttered, "Sorry, sorry," when he was done.

"It's all right," she said softly, kissing his jaw and neck and rubbing against him, but he'd softened quickly and that was no good. Instead, he moved his hand down between their bodies, finding her clit and massaging. Unfortunately, the up-down, up-down of her arousal had put her past a plateau, and she was having a hard time getting back to her previous excitement. He kept at it, patient, but when ten minutes, then fifteen had passed and she still couldn't climax, she grew increasingly self-conscious and frustrated. "You can stop," she whispered.

"No, I don't mind. Not terribly strenuous, you know."

-- which made her laugh . . . and that was worse. She felt herself falling down the slope of excitement until she'd reached a valley, and gripped his arm to halt his motion. "Stop," she whispered. "Just stop. I think it's, well . . . sort of like overripe fruit."

"Not a flattering image, Granger. And sorry. Maybe I should have let you earlier -- "

"It's all right."

She laid her head on his shoulder, moving her hips clear. She felt very slick down there with her own fluid and his too, and scrubbed herself clean without a spell, worrying about semen in the bath but trying to resist overthinking it. She knew she got anal about such things. After all, people apparently swallowed it without ill effect, although it struck her as unsanitary even as she wondered how it might taste . . . and that had her thinking about velvet-soft skin against her lips and the pulse of his heart in his groin. To kiss him all over -- even _there . . . _?

But nice girls didn't do _that_. Did they?

Without really thinking, she reached out to grip his hips, moving a hand in to his now-soft penis, rubbing it a little. He grunted and she felt it twitch and swell slightly. "What are you doing, Granger?" he muttered. "Thought you wanted to stop?"

"Maybe," she replied, still rubbing him. He grew hard slowly, like a tired runner flexing, and his hands were moving all over her back and sides while his hips bucked against her hands. Then abruptly he had hold of her by the waist, lifting her out of the tub. His arms were strong and, sitting on the stairs, he had leverage. She found herself deposited on the edge of the bath. Confused, she looked down at him still in the water. The bubbles were fading and his pale skin could be seen fuzzy and magnified through the surface. Goose pimples appeared all over her. "Lie down," he instructed.

"What?"

"Lie down." And he moved away from the steps along the edge of the bath, tugging her legs towards him. Completely confused, she scooted forward, legs dangling in the water so that it lapped her calves. He stood between and that . . . he could _see_ her from there, and seeing her was different from just feeling her. Blushing as hot as she'd been chilled a moment before, she covered her pubic hair with a hand. "What's that about?" he asked, laughing and reaching out to move her hand. "Lie back."

"Cedric --"

"Lie back. I want to see you."

"Why would you want that? I look funny." Her hand was still over her curls despite his grip on the wrist, trying to pull it away.

"_You_ look funny?" he asked, exasperated. "You don't stick right out there like a tent pole, bobbing up and down with every step!"

And that made her laugh because it was true -- he did bob, but she found it endearing, and quite _interesting_ really. Boys were interesting, how their bodies worked -- not funny at all. 'You're not funny looking," she told him. "Not to me."

"Well, you're not to me, either."

And . . . maybe she wasn't. Maybe he saw her the same way she saw him. As _interesting. _So this time when he tried to move her hand, she let him, feeling a bit slutty but also excited as he set hands on her knees to push them apart. His fingers were gentle against her, parting her lips, just the tip of his thumb entering her while the fore- and middle fingers rubbed her clit in a circular motion. She whined -- quite against her will, but she whined. Then he was pulling her forward until her hips were level with the edge of the bath, knees bent, thighs spread, and the soles of her feet propped on slick marble. Before she quite realized what was about to happen, something hot, soft and _wet_ pressed against her clit . . . and it was the most exquisite thing she'd ever felt in her life.

It was a _tongue_.

She shrieked. It was very unladylike. She shrieked and her head came up, looking down the length of her body to make sure what she thought was happening was really happening, and yes, he had his head between her legs, and she'd never felt anything like _that_. Amazingly intense and too-too much. Her thighs were trembling and her hips arched up involuntarily even as she cried, "God, God, God, _God_! Cedric, God! Ah! _Aiii_, don'tpleasestopnow -- Ican'ttakethat!"

She felt him pull away and almost whined in both relief and disappointment. "You don't like it?" he asked, breath puffing against her. He sounded a bit worried, which gave her pause. She tried to imagine what he must be feeling and thinking.

"I like it a little too much," she answered now, hands drifting down until she could reach his damp hair, fingers running through it gently. "It's . . . really intense. Almost too much so."

"You want me to stop?"

"I . . . I don't know. I don't know what I want! You don't have to do that, you know. You don't have to. I wouldn't ask it -- "

"Maybe I want to."

It was said almost defiantly, and the words made her whole tummy clench. He _wanted_ to do it? He really wanted to? Well, they were in the bath and she couldn't get much cleaner. Perhaps it wasn't so unsanitary here . . . After a moment of internal struggle, she let herself whisper, "I like it."

His mouth went back almost before she was ready, and she squealed again, hips lifting against him. She _felt_ him laugh, and it was the most incredible sensation. His tongue was working against her, soft, soft . . . too soft, but sharp like electric current. She was shivering all over, biting her lips, and making the most embarrassing noises until she was begging him to stop again. "Can't . . . " she whined. "Too much and not enough. Use your hand, please." Her own frankness shocked her, but he didn't seem to mind, complying quickly as she surged against his hand where she lay on the marble. When two fingers entered her again, she barely noticed, she was so lost to sensation.

But she needed a hand on her breast as well, and her own drifted up -- then down. She was still conscious enough to be ashamed. After the second time it happened, he whispered, "Do it," a little breathless. "I want to see how you touch yourself. Show me how you touch yourself." Eyes shut firmly, she complied, rolling and tugging, pinching and rubbing her nipples while he worked her between her legs until she came screaming. Then she just lay there, a bit shell-shocked, until he pulled her back into the bath and held her. When she kissed him, she could taste her own salty musk on his tongue, and he smelled a bit _fishy_. She didn't much like it really, and wondered if he did.

Certainly, he was very, _very_ hard under the water, and she rubbed him while he panted into her mouth. Driven by gratitude for what he'd done, and curiosity, and stripped for the moment of her usual prudery, she sank beneath the surface, climbing down his body until she reached his groin where she kissed and licked his prick, a little unsure what to do with it. For one thing, she was trying to hold her breath, and for another, it was, well, rather _large_. That whole thing couldn't possibly fit in her mouth, could it? Even through the dampening water, she could hear him groaning from her tongue running along the underside of it.

Then she was being pulled up, and she gasped for air when her head broke the surface. He pulled her against his chest. "_You_ don't have to do that either . . . "

"Maybe I want to," she replied in the same tone he'd used. "I mean, if you want me to . . . "

That just got a laugh. "I . . . yeah -- just yeah. No bloke in his right mind would turn that down."

Feeling bold, she rubbed her cheek and nose against his chest and tummy. "Boys like that, do they?"

"Yeah, poppet. Boys like that. A lot. Wasn't sure you'd want to do it . . . didn't want to ask."

In reply, she took another breath and went back under the water, gripping the base of his cock and taking the head in her mouth, moving down on it as much as she could. His reaction was . . . instructive, and pleased her. If she hadn't pulled back a little, the force of his body jerk might have choked her. He did, indeed, seem to like that, and she ran the flat of her tongue over the swollen head. He jerked less this time -- more of a thrust. She put him back in her mouth and tried going up and down a little, but was running out of air and wasn't really sure she was doing this right. Coming up, she looked at his face. He was watching her, gray eyes very, very dark, hands in her wet hair. "Watch your teeth," he said softly.

She submerged a third time, and tried not to drag her teeth against him, but when she came up again, he pulled her to him and spread her thighs with a hand, sliding his cock between. "Press your legs together." She did so and he pumped in and out a bit until he came. It was something they'd not tried before because, outside the water, it would've been difficult for him. The bath, she thought, had distinct advantages over even the big bed in the Room of Requirement.

"You all right?" he whispered in her ear when he had his breath back. His arms were tight around her and she loved being held like this.

"I'm fine. You?"

"_Brilliant_," he replied, almost _giggling_, and she should probably feel shocked at what they'd done, what _she'd_ done, but she felt amazingly close to him instead -- not dirty or ashamed, just . . . close to him. She wondered if he felt the same.

"Love you," she whispered.

He kissed her temple. "Love you too, poppet. Very much."

And it was at that point, as if on cue, everything went to hell.

* * *

Dazed and sleepy, Cedric's eyes kept falling closed. Thus, when he first spotted the oddly dressed house-elf streaking across the marble floor towards them, arms windmilling, he thought he was having a very peculiar dream. "Hermione Granger, Hermione Granger!" the elf cried, "_She_ is coming! Quickly! You must run!"

It was Hermione's shocked jerk away from him that made him realize he _wasn't_ dreaming. Her arms came up over her bare breasts, her little mouth open. "Dobby! What on earth -- ?" But then what he'd just said seemed to register with her and she let out a terrified squeak.

There was only one 'she' around Hogwarts these days.

"Shit!" Cedric hissed, gripping the marble edge of the bath for balance and practically launching Hermione one-armed out of the water. Later he'd ponder how Harry's house-elf had known they were _in_ the bath, and how Umbridge could possibly have found out. Right now, he had to get her _out_ of there.

She landed awkwardly on her side, but wasted no time in scrambling to her feet -- and no modesty trying to cover herself. Snagging her discarded bikini with one hand and the towel Dobby held out to her with the other, she frantically dried off even as Cedric said, "Get back to my room and under the cloak, and for heaven's sake, don't hide in a corner or the wardrobe or anything else she's likely to search by feel. Stand in the middle of the room where you can move out of her way. Don't open the door to the hall either in case she's set a guard. They'll wonder why a door is opening on nothing. Wait for someone to open the door, then get back to your bed as fast as you can."

She nodded, white-faced with panic, and dashed for the door. He turned back to the house-elf, but Dobby had disappeared into whatever hidden access he'd sprung from. Cedric wondered what to do next even as the bathroom door shuddered, then swung open with a crash into the wall. Squat Umbridge stood there, the even shorter Flitwick behind her. "Ah-ha!" she crowed in triumph and bustled in, prowling around the room and shoving open further the (already open) toilet doors.

Flitwick appeared both dubious and confused, but Cedric supposed Umbridge had wanted a male chaperone when breaking in on a male student in the bath -- and also wanted a witness from a House neither his nor Hermione's. "Where is she? Where are you hiding her? I know she's here! Filius, check the boy's bedroom. She must be in there."

Panicked because he doubted Hermione had had enough time yet to hide herself properly, Cedric blurted, "What are you talking about? There's nobody here but me." And in his desperation, he recalled what his mother had told him about Umbridge and young men. Moving towards the bath steps, he sat down on one high enough to expose his entire torso to his hips, glistening with water in the torchlight.

Umbridge _stared_ -- open mouthed and thoroughly distracted as her eyes traveled all over him, or as much of him as she could see. Cedric felt unclean, but Hermione needed time and he'd do whatever it took to give it to her.

Half a minute passed while Umbridge continued to stare until Flitwick cleared his throat in a fair mockery of Umbridge's own affectation. The little man's confusion was giving way to disgust, and he stood with fists on hips in his nightshirt and cap. "This is most irregular, Professor Umbridge," he said. "I don't see any girl, but I do see a student -- a _male _student -- trying to take a bath."

Umbridge swung on him, pasty face even whiter with two bright spots of color high on her cheeks. "Well, of course you don't see a girl, you fool. He's hidden her! You're the Charms teacher. Cast a Revealing Spell!"

Calling Flitwick a fool was no way to get on his good side, Cedric knew. Mouth twisting in annoyance, Flitwick did as Umbridge ordered, pointing his wand all around the room and muttering "Reveal," over and over. Of course nothing was revealed and Umbridge grew angrier, but it was taking several minutes and that was all Cedric cared about.

She spun on him. "I know you and Hermione Granger were in here together. Where is she? Filius, the boy's room, please. Mr. Filch is watching the doors so I know she can't sneak away."

Flitwick's face was still a mask of reluctance, and Cedric took advantage of it. "I don't know why you thought I had a girl here with me, professor, but if my legs are bothering me too much to sleep, I sometimes take a bath. So if Mr. Filch saw a light under the door, I assure you, it was just me --"

"It wasn't Filch!" Umbridge thundered.

"Then I don't know who it could have been, as I haven't seen a soul since I came in here."

Keep her talking . . . he needed to keep her talking as long as he could.

Umbridge's eyes had narrowed while she struggled with something, then she blurted, "I was told about it by that young ghost who lives in the plumbing. She's been most helpful this year!"

"Moaning Myrtle?" Cedric asked, completely taken aback. "How could _she_ know what's happening in the prefects' bathroom? She stays in the girls' toilet on the first floor!"

"Apparently not," Umbridge replied, looking triumphant. "She saw you and Hermione Granger in here tonight, engaged in _highly_ improper acts!"

Flitwick's expression had shifted again from sympathy back to suspicion and he glanced around the room once more, as if looking for evidence he'd missed. Ghosts were a fact of castle life and if they mostly didn't speak of what they saw, everyone knew they saw quite a lot. Yet Cedric had one final defense -- "Why would Professor Dumbledore let a girl's ghost into a bathroom used by boys?" He was quite perturbed by that despite the dire nature of his situation.

"I don't think he knew about it!" Umbridge replied, still looking pleased with herself. "And I notice you didn't _deny_ the ghost's claim."

"Because it's absurd!" he told her. "There's nobody in here but me! You can see that for yourself."

"Filius," Umbridge said. "Check his room."

Hermione had to be hidden by now. "Fine," Cedric snapped, "_check_ my room then!"

Flitwick's eyes moved between Cedric and Umbridge, then he crossed his arms. "Actually, Dolores, I think it more appropriate if _you_ check his room and I stay with Mr. Diggory while he makes himself decent."

Put that way, Umbridge had little choice. She glared at them both but spun on her heel, stalking towards the entrance to his suite. Meanwhile, Flitwick Summoned a towel, which he offered to Cedric as he squatted down next to him and helped him out of the bath. "I noticed some wet footprints leading back towards your access door -- too small to be yours and without any foot drag."

He said this almost conversationally, but Cedric's face blanched. Flitwick was head of Ravenclaw House for a _reason_. Yet the other man continued, "I don't want to know what went on in here earlier. The two of you would hardly be the first students to break rules in the name of romance. Most of us are willing to turn a blind eye to certain things with certain, more mature students -- as long as we're not _forced_ to take notice . . . "

Cedric's heart started to descend from his throat as he recalled that Flitwick had a reputation as a duelist . . . and a bit of a lady killer.

"That being said," Flitwick went on, "Professor Umbridge is determined to have your hide nailed to her office wall." His expression grew grave. "This was sloppy, Cedric. You're more clever than that. Now please tell me Professor Umbridge isn't going to find Miss Granger in your bedroom?"

It was clear Flitwick wouldn't turn him in, but it was also clear the Charms professor was annoyed . . . and worried. "She won't find her," Cedric said -- hoping against hope it was true.

Flitwick nodded. "Good. Now get dressed," and he stood to head into Cedric's bedroom himself. Hands shaking, Cedric gathered his leg braces to do as ordered.

If they hadn't been convicted yet, they were far from out of the woods, and his thoughts were dashing in several different directions at once like a brace of hares caught in a net. It was one thing if he were expelled. In fact, since the Quidditch incident, he'd feared it would be just a matter of time. He'd already taken his OWLs; he'd survive. But if Hermione didn't pass a minimum number of OWLs, she'd be forbidden to use magic ever again -- banished back to the Muggle world and ill-equipped for it after spending five critical years in his world.

Braces and underpants back on, he bowed his forehead to his knees. "This can't be happening."

* * *

To be sure, Hermione had been in tight spots before, and she'd been sorted into Gryffindor because her courage was even greater than her intelligence. She knew she had to keep her head, keep her cool, and remain on the lookout for an opportunity to escape. But if being expelled was less calamitous than _dying_, she and Cedric hadn't broken the rules for some greater good. They'd broken them for personal gratification, plain and simple. Even Dumbledore couldn't -- and probably wouldn't -- save them if they were caught.

What sort of idiots had they been? She felt so guilty she was tempted to turn herself in, except it would destroy Cedric's life, not just her own. Besides, if she considered herself ready to be sexually active with her boyfriend of half a year, whose right was it to tell her she couldn't be? It was her body, and she was six months away from being counted an adult in the Wizarding World. Yet, the two of them _had_ abused their positions -- positions they'd been given for being responsible and trustworthy -- and they'd done it without any thought for the rightness or wrongness of it.

Thus, back-and-forth flashes of remorse and anger plagued her as she hurried into Cedric's bedroom, drying herself as she ran and tossing the damp towel into a corner of his wardrobe where it might be overlooked, then grabbed her bag and robe and cloak from under his blankets. Throwing the cloak on, she dashed out into the sitting room where she huddled near the door so she could slip out if she got a chance. There, she dug in her bag for her knickers and pyjamas, although her hands were shaking so badly she had trouble dressing. How much time had passed? What was happening next door? She wondered these things as she climbed into her clothing as best she could under the cloak.

Dressed at last, she waited. She could hear Esiban whining and scratching in his cage in the other room. He'd been unhappy when Cedric had locked him up there instead of taking him into the bathroom with them.

The muffled crack of a door opening told her that someone had entered Cedric's toilet, then there was the sound of shuffling feet. Placed as she was, Hermione could see only part of the bedroom through the open doorway. The short figure of Umbridge crossed and re-crossed her line of sight, muttering to herself, "Where are you, you treacherous creature? You can't hide from me. I know you were in there and we didn't see you fleeing down the hallway, so you must be in _here_."

Hermione held absolutely still and tried to breathe as softly as she could. Fortunately, Esiban began scratching and chittering again. "Merlin's beard!" Umbridge exclaimed and Hermione could hear her stumble into something. "What on earth? Shut up, you horrid little beast!"

Umbridge emerged from the bedroom and glanced all around the sitting room, but there were fewer places here to hide, so her circuit of the room was cursory. She paused beside Cedric's desk and dug through it, inspecting books, pieces of parchment and even opening drawers to paw through them. Spotting his little black journal, she snatched it up and tried to open it -- and failed. "Well, isn't this interesting?" Drawing her wand, she tapped the cover, but it still stayed closed. "There's obviously something in here you don't want anyone to see, isn't there?"

She started to pocket the journal but the bathroom door opened again and another set of footsteps entered the suite -- not Cedric's, as they were quick and precise. Umbridge dropped the journal back on the desk and spun around as Professor Flitwick entered the sitting room. "Unless Miss Granger has learned a Reduction Spell, I doubt you'll find her hiding in Mr. Diggory's desk."

"Well, of course not!" Umbridge replied. "I was -- never mind. Where's Mr. Diggory?"

"Getting dressed. I take it you didn't find Miss Granger?"

"No, I didn't. But I'm quite sure -- "

"I'm not sure at all, professor. It looks to me like this is a ghost's notion of a joke -- Myrtle is well known for doing things to get attention, although usually it amounts to bawling over the smallest perceived insult." He crossed his arms over his chest. "I'm ready to go to bed and leave Mr. Diggory to get some sleep himself."

Clearly frustrated but also unable to argue with a lack of evidence, Umbridge crossed to the door and flung it open. Hermione tensed, prepared to run for it. "Mr. Filch? Has anyone left this room since we arrived?"

Filch appeared in the doorway. "No, professor. No one's come or gone since you and Professor Flitwick entered the bathroom."

She turned back to the room, hands on hips and lips thin while Filch had moved back into the hallway. Three feet separated them, three feet for Hermione to slide between and escape. She began to inch forward when Umbridge threw up her hands and turned again. Hermione froze. "Very well. She's not here, but I'm not convinced yet. Mr. Filch, let's go to Gryffindor Tower and check her bed. Professor Flitwick, tell Mr. Diggory he may return to his room, but he's not to leave it until morning -- then Seal him in."

And she exited without closing the door. "Follow me, Argus." They headed off down the hallway.

Flitwick snorted delicately. "This is ridiculous," he muttered to himself, casting a glance around the room . . . and pausing on her. Hermione stayed completely still. He couldn't spot an invisibility cloak like Dumbledore, could he? Hermione hadn't thought anyone else at the castle was that powerful, but Flitwick dealt with Charms specifically. He chuckled but turned on his heel, heading back into the bedroom. He didn't close the front door either.

Hermione fled.


	27. Purple

Hermione had one chance to reach Gryffindor Tower before Filch and Umbridge without trying to pass them on the stairs -- Cedric's lift. Racing for the alcove not far from Cedric's room, she found the lift already on that floor as Cedric had used it earlier in the evening. The door opened immediately to her muttered password and she climbed in. It shot up to the seventh floor, where she dashed out towards the base of Gryffindor tower. She could hear Umbridge's high voice somewhere in the distance . . . and below her on the stairs.

Skidding to a halt in front of the portrait hole, she yanked off the cloak and said, "Wake up! Flibberty-gibbet!"

The Fat Lady yawned and grumped and eyed her with great suspicion. "You're out and about after curfew again, I see." But she opened without further protest for Hermione to duck inside.

Fortunately, the common room was as empty now as it had been when she'd left and she scurried through it and up the stairs to the girl's dormitories. Her roommates were all still asleep and she ripped off the invisibility cloak, shoving it and the map into the depths of her trunk . . . along with her (wet) bikini. She'd fish it out later. Then she dived into her bed, kicked the clothes in it over the far side, rolled onto her tummy and pretended to be asleep.

She didn't have long to wait. Perhaps five minutes later, she could hear noise in the common room below and a heavy tread on the stairs -- then the voices of two women. One was Umbridge, but the other was Professor McGonagall, and perhaps that was why Hermione had managed to make it back with a bit of time to spare. Umbridge had gone after McGonagall.

"This is absurd, Dolores," McGonagall was saying. "How dare you make such ridiculous accusations against one of my best students!"

"I have it on good authority --"

"Good authority in the word of a temperamental teenage ghost?"

Then the door to their dormitory was being opened and the light of two wands stabbed through the darkness. "Hermione Granger!" Professor Umbridge called out in her high, wavering voice.

Hermione sat up in her bed, a hand over her eyes to ward off the glare. "Yes?"

Hermione heard McGonagall sniff. "There, you see? She's exactly where she ought to be."

"She is now," Umbridge said. "Miss Granger! Get up please!"

Hermione crawled out of bed, hand still raised against the brightness. Her roommates were awake now too, peering out between the curtains around their beds. "What's going on?" Lavender asked.

"Has Miss Granger been here all night?" Umbridge demanded.

"She was already asleep when we came to bed," Parvati said.

"You're certain of that?"

Parvati frowned. Even if she wasn't close to Hermione, Umbridge had earned her and Lavender's permanent enmity for firing Trelawney. "Absolutely," Parvati said now.

"There," McGonagall said, "you see? I'm deeply offended, Dolores, and I believe you owe Miss Granger and Mr. Diggory both an apology."

Lavender's eyes widened. "What are _they_ being accused of?"

"Something they didn't do, so never you mind, Miss Brown," McGonagall rebuked.

But Umbridge had raised an eyebrow. 'Why is your hair _wet_, Miss Granger?"

And oh, heavens . . . Hermione had forgotten about that. Lavender, Parvati and even Professor McGonagall were all peering at her now, as if just noticing. "I took a shower before bedtime," Hermione replied.

"And it's _still_ wet?"

"I have very thick hair, professor. That's _why_ I tend to wash it at night. It takes several hours to dry." And that was true enough, but McGonagall was no longer looking quite so certain . . . and Umbridge obviously wasn't buying the explanation.

She turned to the other two girls. "You're _quite_ sure Miss Granger has been in here _all_ night?"

Stubborn, Lavender's chin came up. "We're as sure as we can be," she replied. "I'm a light sleeper, professor. I'd have heard her leave if she did."

Hermione resisted laughing. Lavender would sleep through a battle with Death Eaters. But it left Umbridge with no grounds for an objection, and they'd begun to draw a crowd in any case. Girls from other rooms had woken at all the noise and wandered out to crowd behind Umbridge and McGonagall in the doorway. Aware that she was surrounded by hostile Gryffindors, Umbridge sniffed a final time and said, "All right. I can't _prove_ you were in the prefects' bath tonight with Mr. Diggory, but I'm not satisfied -- and be sure I'll be watching you from now on, Miss Granger."

She swept down the stairs. McGonagall waited a moment, her eyes meeting Hermione's, then she followed Umbridge without another word, the bobbing light of her wand marking her progress down the steps. When both women were gone, Angelina Johnson ignited her own wand and burst out laughing. "Bloody _hell_, Hermione! You took a bath with _Diggory_? And got away with it?"

Hermione flushed tomato red. "I did not!" Back-peddling was instinctive. "I have no idea what that woman was on about, but she hates us both."

"Yeah, right," Katie said. "You _do_ have wet hair."

"I took a shower!"

"And it's still _that_ wet? Please."

The knot of girls at the door loosened as they returned to bed, whispering and giggling. Lavender and Parvati continued to stare at Hermione, and Ginny remained in the doorway a moment, then spun on her heel and left without comment.

"I've been _asleep_," Hermione said to the dark, her voice angry.

Parvati huffed and Hermione heard Lavender flop back in her bed. Hermione lay down too, her body weak from adrenaline. Gossip would be all over the castle by tomorrow. Umbridge might lack enough conclusive evidence to punish them, but the circumstantial evidence was all the students would need to concoct their own version of events.

* * *

Cedric barely slept.

When Flitwick returned to escort him back into his room, the little man said, "Professor Umbridge and Mr. Filch are on their way to Gryffindor Tower to check on Miss Granger." He paused to watch Cedric's face and Cedric was forced to lower it, pretending to adjust his crutch lest Flitwick see the fear in his eyes. "Professor Umbridge wanted me to Seal you in here until morning -- but quite honestly, I don't want to get up at the crack of dawn on a Saturday to Unseal you, so your word that you'll stay put will be good enough, Mr. Diggory."

"Of course," Cedric managed to choke out. "I'm going back to bed."

Flitwick nodded and headed out, pausing before closing the sitting room door. "I reckon you'll hear something within half an hour if there are any further problems. Sleep well, Cedric."

Cedric released Esiban -- who scolded him for a full minute -- and waited on the sofa in the sitting room, hands clenched, unable to do anything, even assemble coherent thoughts. The big grandfather clock in one corner ticked off minutes until half an hour had come and gone but he still couldn't relax, nor could he sleep even when he went back to bed. He tossed and turned, wondering what had happened in Gryffindor Tower, but didn't dare leave his room. First, he had no invisibility cloak and the noise of his passage made it impossible for him to sneak around anyway. Second, he'd given Flitwick his word, and if that wouldn't have stopped him had he been able to do something, there was nothing he could do about this.

Sometime a little before six, he dozed off and didn't wake again until there was a firm knock on his door. Bleary eyed, he sat up and started to call, "Come in," but thought better of it. Grabbing his crutches, he got to his feet and went to answer the door.

Peter, Ed and Scott all stood on the other side, looking exceedingly concerned. "What the bleedin' hell went on last night?" Peter demanded, pushing his way into the sitting room. Cedric moved aside to let them troop past before Scott shut the door. "The castle grapevine is going nuts about you and Granger getting caught in the prefects' bathroom but I can't believe you'd be _that _stupid, Ced."

Leaning on one crutch, Cedric rubbed his face with a hand. Splendid. "We weren't caught," he told them, debating whether to lie but what was the point? "We were _almost _caught." The faces of the other three ranged from Peter's astonishment to Scott's amusement. "Umbridge dragged Flitwick up here and stormed into the bathroom, but we were warned in time. Hermione got out. Umbridge has nothing on us." He started to add that Flitwick had guessed the truth but didn't. "That is _not_ to leave this room, understand? Not even to anybody in the Sett. I trust you lot, but if it goes too far, it could end up in the wrong ears. Not to mention it's rather damning for Hermione's reputation."

Scott snorted. "I think it's a bit late to worry about that, mate. Maybe Umbridge has nothing on you, but about half the castle's speculating as to just what went on in there."

"Merlin!" Cedric snarled, colossally annoyed. "We didn't _do_ anything!" At their completely disbelieving expressions, he added, "Well, we weren't doing _that_," although he didn't plan to tell them what he and Hermione _had_ been doing. "And even if we were, it's not anybody's business!"

Now they were all looking at him like he was daft. "Ced," Peter told him, "you're Head Boy and Triwizard Champ -- prime gossip fodder. It may not be their business, but they're going to talk."

"It's not necessarily bad talk either, you know," Scott added. "Most of them seem a bit impressed you two pulled that off right under Umbridge's nose. In fact, the reason only half the castle thinks you were doing something is because the other half can't believe you'd have got away with it. We're not even sure how you did it."

And that was clearly a sideways request for information. Cedric wasn't about to tell them of Harry's cloak, so he said only, "The map." They knew about the Maurader's Map from D.A. meetings.

"Ah," Ed said and Peter added, "Bloody brilliant bit of magic, that."

"Well anyway," Scott went on, "I think you're more likely to get congratulated than condemned."

"Except for the twins," Ed said, as if reminding the other two.

"Oh, yeah -- there is that," Peter agreed. "I'd stay away from the Weasleys for a few days. Last I heard they were plotting to castrate you. Without a Dulling spell."

"Fucking hell!" Cedric replied. That was all he needed, Hermione's friends deciding to be overprotective. "Harry too?"

"No, actually," Peter said. "When we saw them out in the courtyard earlier, Hermione was yelling at Fred and George, and Harry seemed to be on her side, though he looked a bit uncertain about it. Sort of funny, actually. And that klutzy Gryffindor was with them, the one Sprout likes, watching it all like a Quidditch match, yeah?"

Another knock on the door made them pause; Ed -- who was closest -- opened it. Hermione stomped in, face thunderous. "I . . . think we'll be going now," Scott said, getting up from the chair he'd occupied and herding Ed and Peter in front of him. "I'm leaving the door a bit open, understand?"

"Yeah," Cedric called back. After the night before, he and Hermione had best not be found alone together behind a closed door. He cast Muffliato as she stalked over to him; at first he feared she was angry with him but when she pressed her face against his chest, he realized she was just angry and shifted his weight so he could put an arm around her. "What happened after you left the bathroom?" he asked, whispering despite the spell.

"I dressed and waited in here, like you said. Umbridge came in to search, but she didn't just look for me, Ced. She went through your stuff. Flitwick stopped her before she could take anything. She did find your journal but she couldn't open it."

Mouth dropping in shock, he glanced behind him at the big teak desk, spotting his journal still there on top and breathing out in relief. "It doesn't have anything in it about the Order, or Harry's thing," he said softly. "I wouldn't write that down anywhere."

She nodded. "Still, she might try to come back for it."

"I'll hide it or keep it with me," he promised. "What happened after that?"

"She and Filch headed for Gryffindor Tower, but they stopped to get Professor McGonagall on the way. I took the lift and got there first."

"Clever girl."

"It was a close thing. And my hair was wet. I forgot my hair was wet. I told them it was from a shower, and it dries slowly. They couldn't prove otherwise, but I don't think even McGonagall really believed that. Certainly most of the girls didn't." Her face twisted into prim annoyance. "Ron, Fred and George are acting like I'm their sister and you've offended my honor. If they don't lay off, I'm going to hex all three of them!"

"Peter warned me I should stay away from them for a while. What about Harry?" Whatever Peter had said, Cedric worried. Maintaining Harry's good opinion was more important to him.

"Harry's upset, but he knows that coming here last night was my idea. He reminded Ron that I'm older than both of them and it's not like we just started seeing each other. Harry's the one who had Dobby keeping an eye out. He told me this morning."

"That explains the elf. Thank him for me."

"How did Umbridge know, though? Did she tell you?"

Cedric frowned. "Apparently Moaning Myrtle spied on us. I didn't think she ever left that girls' bathroom."

"Of course!" Hermione closed her eyes and huffed out. "I am _such_ a idiot! Harry mentioned her last year when he took the egg in there!"

"He _knew_ she went to the prefects' bathroom and didn't say anything to anybody?"

"Don't blame him, Cedric -- he was preoccupied with the Tournament. And I should have remembered, but I haven't seen her all year. So I completely forgot about it. I'm not sure how often she really does go there."

"The castle ghosts are forbidden certain places on purpose," Cedric told her. "Student dormitories and teacher's chambers, cross-gender bathrooms --"

"I know. And Peeves aside, mostly I don't think they want to peek, but Myrtle was only thirteen or fourteen when she died. I suppose she's, well, curious."

"Great. So she spied on us, then went running to Umbridge. Umbridge implied she's done some other spying for her too."

"At least it explains how Umbridge knew. And now that the cat's out of the bag, I expect Dumbledore will put a stop to her sneaking around."

"I hope Flitwick tells him. I'm none too keen on dead girls watching me while I'm having a pee."

She laughed. "Be that as it may, the Room of Requirement is still safe."

"No, Granger, it's not." He frowned down at her. He'd thought quite a lot about this during the night. "We're not going to do anything like last night again -- "

"Cedric!"

" -- it's too dangerous. Umbridge will be waiting for us to screw up."

Her dark eyes were sly. "And you think we'll really be able to keep our hands off each other?"

"_Yes_," he said. "Yes, we're going to because we have to. It won't happen again because I won't let it. You're too important to me to risk getting you into trouble just because I'm feeling randy."

Her expression had gone from slightly amused to wide-eyed and serious. "We can be careful -- "

"Like last night?"

"That was different." She colored. "And my fault. I should have remembered Myrtle. And it was my idea in the first place."

"I didn't exactly object."

"No, but still." She paused, then looked up at him, her face frustrated. "All right, I'll admit you have a point. At least for now, we'll be good. Maybe later . . . "

"Maybe later," he agreed, then glanced towards the open door. "We should go. We shouldn't both be missing from public areas for any length of time. I'm not giving Umbridge -- or anyone else -- reason to suspect us."

So they went downstairs. It was already late morning, and Cedric was very conscious of the stares and giggles. A few people -- mostly male -- had the temerity to give him a covert thumbs up, which annoyed him until he realized it had less to do with assumptions that he'd had sex with Hermione than approval of the fact the two of them had successfully confounded Umbridge (whatever they'd actually done in the bath). It put heart back into students who'd lost it when Umbridge had closed the Common Room. Madam Toad _could_ be outwitted.

Yet Umbridge glared at them through narrow eyes whenever she saw them. Clearly all the gossip had made her that much more bound and determined to win their next engagement, whatever it turned out to be.

* * *

Hermione handled the whispers with both more and less grace than Cedric. The year before, she'd faced gossip about her romantic entanglements and since being with Cedric, she knew the castle occupants speculated about what she and Cedric did in private. They hadn't, however, had any hard-and-fast evidence. Now they did, at least in their own minds.

She stared down questions from strangers and enemies with thin lips and crossed arms. "I don't intend to dignify that with a reply," she told them. But it was harder to face her friends. Harry knew generally what had happened, and Cedric had admitted that he'd told his three denmates. Ron knew via Harry, but what the twins believed was guesswork on their part. After their patronizing indignation, Hermione didn't intend to tell them a thing.

Ginny, however, was hurt. "I can't believe you told Harry and not me!" she snapped on Sunday morning. They were sitting on Hermione's bed.

"Harry only knew Cedric and I were going to the prefects' bathroom. He didn't know what we did, and didn't ask. I told him I had a swimsuit -- which I did. Good grief, it's _private_, Ginny. Do I ask what you've done with Michael?"

"Maybe I'd tell you if you did!"

"She doesn't ask because she don't _care_." It wasn't Ginny who said that. It was Lavender Brown, who'd lifted the curtain around Hermione's bed and leaned against one of the corner posts, trying to appear nonchalant. It startled both Ginny and Hermione, who hadn't realized anybody else was in the room. Hermione wondered how much Lavender had overheard. "That's why you have no real girlfriends, Hermione," Lavender went on. "I think half the reason you're so close to Ron and Harry is because they're too dim to realize you don't confide in them."

Lavender was shrewder than Hermione sometimes credited her, despite her tendency to giggle at unfortunate times and her confidence in divination. Nonetheless, Hermione felt driven to protest, "I confide in people! You're just sore because you defended me to Umbridge and now you think you have a right to know what I do with Cedric."

"Oh, it's not just Cedric. Did anybody know you were going to the ball with Viktor Krum?"

"I knew," Ginny said. "Hermione needed me to help with her hair."

"See?" Lavender asked. "You told Ginny about Viktor because you needed somebody to do your hair. And you told Harry you were sneaking into the prefects' bathroom only because you needed his help to do that" -- which confirmed that Lavender had overheard pretty much everything. "You're a _user_, Hermione, not a friend."

She sauntered away. Hermione looked to Ginny for understanding, but Ginny's face was troubled. "She has a point, you know. You might try confiding more. I understand why you don't sometimes, but we're not your enemies." And Ginny left too.

Hermione huddled on her bed, arms wrapped around her knees. She wasn't a user, and she did care about others. More than once, she'd risked everything for Harry and Ron, and she'd always kept Ginny's secrets. But it was true that she didn't usually offer any of her _own_ unless caught out. She hadn't had friends growing up, nor siblings, so she'd never learned to confide in people her age. Doing so felt like an imposition. She was the strong one, the one who helped others, not the one who needed help. Her interior life remained her private domain, and her secrets were _her_ secrets. But Lavender had a point when she said part of Ron and Harry's appeal was that they didn't ask her personal questions or realize how much she didn't tell them. If they got a bit upset when they realized she'd kept something from them, it wasn't serious and never lasted. She thought that, secretly, they were grateful not to have to worry about her.

The only person who asked and insisted she answer was Cedric -- and he sometimes failed to notice. Ginny almost always noticed and asked, but didn't push for an answer; she had other friends her own age and didn't need Hermione. Now Hermione realized that perhaps Ginny saw it the other way -- Hermione didn't want or need her. That wasn't strictly true. The truth was that Hermione feared needing anyone, even Cedric sometimes.

Yet as they were under siege again, Cedric barely left her side all that weekend, somewhat to her annoyance until Harry said, "He's afraid people will think he took advantage of you -- got what he wanted and now doesn't care. He also doesn't want anybody harassing you where he can't hear and defend you."

She stared, surprised _Harry_ had been able to figure all that out given how clueless he usually was about such matters. "How do you know?"

He blushed. "Er, um, I overheard him talking to Peter."

"Ah," she said.

On Sunday night after Hermione returned from rounds, Angelina slipped into her dorm room, only to slam a pillowcase over her head, stopping her startled squeak in her throat by saying, "You're coming with us," and hauling her up from her bed with Quidditch-hardened muscles. Hermione was walked down a hall, up some stairs and into another room, which she assumed was a dormitory until Angelina pulled off the pillowcase. Then she found herself in a cupboard, or maybe a tower side-attic, lit by floating candles and a single lamp. Wrapped in red sheets and looking rather comically serious were Angelina, Katie, Alicia, Mary her fellow prefect, and another seventh year named Patricia Stimpson all standing in a semicircle around a small stone shelf where the lamp rested along with another item. Hermione stared at it for a moment. Surely that wasn't --

"Welcome to the Order of the Purple Dildo," Angelina intoned with mock solemnity.

Hermione nearly choked. "The . . . what?" She _couldn't_ have heard that correctly.

"The Order of the Purple Dildo," Angelina repeated, and abruptly, the other girls all lost their ability to keep a straight face and burst out laughing.

Blinking, Hermione tried to make sense of what was going on. She'd been abducted from her room before bed to be brought here with two sixth years, three seventh years, death-by-red cloth, and a sex toy of questionable color? "What on earth is this about?" she asked -- a bit primly.

Struggling to calm themselves, the other five settled into hiccuping spurts and sighs. "The Order of the Purple Dildo is for Gryffindor girls who, er, know what the real one looks like," Katie explained.

"And not from a book," Alicia added.

"What makes you think _I'd_ know that?" Hermione asked. "Don't tell me you believe every bit of gossip in the castle!"

The others just shook their heads and _looked_ at her as Angelina turned to pick up the dildo -- which really was a frightening shade of grape -- then turned back to the group of girls. She elevated it the way a priest might elevate the cup during the consecration of the elements for communion, and Hermione supposed she ought to be disturbed by that comparison. "In order to be inducted," Angelina explained, "you must answer some questions -- oaths, really. Then you're a member and privy to Purple Dildo Secrets."

This was fast becoming just _too_ peculiar, but Hermione knew public schools were awash with odd secret societies of one type or another, so she probably shouldn't be surprised. Nonetheless . . . "Why would I _want_ to be in this order, pray tell?"

The other five grinned at her. "Information about boys and birth control -- why else? Plus members are sworn to help a sister in trouble." Angelina waggled eyebrows. "Yes, _that_ sort of trouble. More to the point, we'd like to be sure it doesn't even come up. Our founder decided no girl from Gryffindor was going to dishonor the House due to ignorance, so she started this club in order to be certain anybody having sex knew how to protect herself, and also so that -- if something went wrong -- she'd have help to take care of the problem. That's what dues are for. They go into the till. It's not that much, but they add up. The till hasn't been dipped into since the 1970s." Angelina grinned. "Gryffindor girls are good with their spells."

It made a certain amount of sense, Hermione supposed. "How long has this 'order' existed?"

"Since the 1920s."

"And it's had a . . . purple . . . _that_" -- she waved her hand at it -- "since the beginning?"

"Well, not really, that's a bit more recent." Angelina laughed. "But it's always been _called_ the Order of the Purple Dildo."

Before being told off by Lavender that morning, Hermione might have turned down the offer in priggish indignation. But Lavender's accusations still smarted, and while part of her wanted to deny that she had the requisite knowledge to belong, she recognized both the opportunity and value of it. "All right," she said. "As long as you're not going to ask me anything really private."

"Not beyond the necessary," Angelina said, as Alicia added, "Not before the wine anyway."

With a glare at her friend, Angelina intoned in a formal voice, "Step forward, initiate!" Hermione did as instructed and Angelina met her in the circle center. "First, the qualifying question. In the presence of your sisters, do you claim to have laid bare hands on a bare male member?"

Hermione coughed, but found herself admitting to what she hadn't intended to admit to. "Yes."

That won whoops and whistles from the others, and Alicia pumped her fist in the air. "Hermione nailed Diggory!" It wasn't quite the way Hermione would have expected that to be put, but she found she preferred it to the reverse.

"Ladies," Angelina admonished with mock hauteur. "Sister Hermione, please put a hand on the dildo to take your vows."

"What?" Hermione's face went scarlet and her mouth dropped open.

"Oh, don't be a prude. Grip it like when you bring him off." Hermione hesitated, then lifted her chin and reached up to grip the dildo as instructed. It felt . . . funny, like jelly rubber. The other girls giggled despite trying to remain serious.

"Do you promise to stand by your sisters in the Order?"

"Of course." She'd have done that anyway as a Gryffindor.

"Do you promise to keep the existence of the Order secret from anyone not inducted?"

"Yes, all right."

"Do you promise to keep secret any and all private information shared by your sisters, not using that information against them either for purposes of gossip or to get them into trouble with teachers?"

"Of course I wouldn't gossip about anybody!"

"Or tell on them?" Angelina pressed.

"Well, no, not that either. I'm not a sneak."

"Last, do you promise to alert the Order if you know of any other Gryffindor girls who might need us for their own safety and to preserve the honor of Gryffindor House?"

"I will."

"So be it! Katie?" Relieved, Hermione yanked her hand back from the purple dildo as Katie Bell stepped forward with a red sheet that she wrapped around Hermione's torso in something vaguely approximating a Roman matron's _palla_, or cloak. "And now, the all-important Anti-fertility Spell."

"Actually," Hermione admitted, "I already know it."

Katie rolled her eyes. "Why am I not surprised? Don't tell me -- you read it in a book!"

"No, I didn't. It was . . . taught to me."

"Surely not by Cedric?" Angelina asked, face somewhere between amused and astonished.

"No! Not by Cedric. By, um, Nymphadora Tonks."

"Oh! Tonks! Yeah, she's a member of the Order, too."

For a moment, Hermione was confused about which Order, and started -- then realized they meant _this_ one . . . and found she wasn't really surprised. "Oh."

"Well," Angelina said, "just to be on the safe side, let's hear it -- make sure you've got it right. Too many girls think they've got it right and don't, then wind up in trouble. The main point of all this is to make sure everybody in Gryffindor knows how to protect herself."

So Hermione recited the spell, got nods of approval from the other girls, and Angelina broke out a carafe of red wine as Alicia Conjured goblets and Patricia floated them to each of the girls after Angelina had filled them.

What followed could only be called a rather silly drunken party, and Hermione had never been included in something like this, a group made up entirely of girls talking about girl things with a frankness that shocked her a bit. The wine and sympathetic company loosened tongues. They all wanted to know about Cedric, but were willing to tell things too. "What? He did _that_? Oh, a prince among men! Blokes don't do _that_ very often. It took me forever to convince Todd ..." and "You can wrap your lips over the top of your teeth to keep them from dragging against him," and "Don't forget to kiss _his_ nipples; boys have sensitive nipples too." Hermione no longer felt so adrift and confused, and received the kind of information one didn't find in books. It took friends and sisters and trust. They all went to bed well after midnight, and woke up a little hung over.

By the light of morning, and without the aid of alcohol, Hermione wondered if she'd done a wise thing the night before, telling the other girls so much. What if they did use it against her, despite their 'vows'? What if it had all been an elaborate ruse to get Hermione Granger to confess to immodest acts? And even if this wasn't a ruse, would she want Cedric to have told his mates some of what she'd told the others? Then again, given what she'd learned, he might be glad of it the next time they were alone together, and the other girls weren't supposed to tell anybody else.

As she descended to breakfast, she was joined by Mary and Katie on the stairs, who grinned at her but didn't say anything. All three of them ran into Pansy and her Slytherin entourage crossing the entrance hall. Pansy paused long enough to smirk and say, "From fetching his snacks on the train to washing his . . . back." She burst into giggles. "He's got you on your knees for him, doesn't he? Mouth open, I'm sure."

Hermione felt her face go white even as Katie and Mary moved in front of her. Mary the prefect said, "Continue with the nasty, unfounded accusations against a fellow prefect and I'll see that Violet hears about this, Parkinson."

Katie added, "And I'll be sure Professor Snape hears how you and Draco use his storage closet for unauthorized 'studying,' too. You've got no room to talk, you slag."

Pansy glared, but stalked off and Hermione smiled at them both. "Er, thanks." She still felt a little weak, affected more than she cared to admit by what Pansy had said.

"Anytime," Katie replied. "Sisters stick together."

"Purple power!" Mary agreed, patting her shoulder, but Hermione's mood remained dark as they turned for the Great Hall. A small crowd around Lucy Diggory's painting made them pause. As on the first morning it had appeared, the crowd parted to let Hermione through.

She looked up at it, and there in the glade, the young god had finally made his appearance in human form. His back to the viewer, a bush concealed his lower body but his naked shoulders could be seen, and the rear of his head with antlers crowning it. The glade was no longer sunlit. Shadows dappled it, and in the reeds beside the lake, a snake slithered, marked by a pattern of black bow-ties across dull-brown skin. It wasn't the same as the horned snake tattooed on the gods' chest. At the sound of rustling reeds, the god turned his head.

At first glance, it was Cedric's face -- the strong jaw, heavy brows, fine, straight nose and deep-set eyes. Yet it also wasn't. There was something a bit off about it, deliberately obscured. As he lifted his arms, Hermione could see that he was carrying a bow, which he aimed and fired. An arrow struck the ground near the snake, which slithered off and disappeared. With a quick glance around, the god strode away into the wood.

* * *

As promised, Cedric kept his hands off Hermione, at least to do anything that could be judged intimate. Frustrating, to be sure, but the only safe option at the moment, and the memory of being almost caught provided motivation. It was also, he supposed, practice for the year to come when she'd be back at Hogwarts and he wouldn't. He'd begun to think that far in advance and wondered which would prove worse -- to see her daily but be barred from more than hand-holding or a few kisses in the library stacks, or not to see her at all? One was constant temptation, the other constant deprivation. The only thing he had to look forward to was summer, and he wasn't so sure about that. Much would depend on what they were doing. Right now, it looked as if he'd be finding work as soon as possible.

It was early in a wet April that he received news from his mother that his father had finally found enough financial backing to open a full-time shelter for magical pets. Fortunately, his father wasn't starting from scratch and had invested time and money for years in remodeling the barn into kennels. Magical labor or not, it still required materials, and now he was modifying the carriage house to make an office and vet clinic, and seeking part-time help. Dumbledore had put him in touch with an old student who specialized in animal healing and might be willing to donate time, and Molly Weasley had volunteered to help with the paperwork.

_Now that all her children are at school, it gives her something else to do in addition to her other volunteer work_ -- the Order, Cedric knew. Apparently Cedric's mother and Arthur Weasley were a bit bemused by the unlikely -- and fiery-tempered -- collaboration. His father and Mrs. Weasley argued as much as they agreed, but, _She's really quite extraordinary at organization,_ his mother wrote. _Then again, after organizing seven children, I suppose I shouldn't be surprised._

At the moment, no one was getting paid for anything, but his father hoped to offer modest wages in the future -- 'modest' being key. _If he makes a third of what he made at the Ministry, I shall be very much surprised,_ his mother wrote. _But it doesn't matter. He's finally doing what he's wanted to do for years, Cedric. He's happy. _Yet Cedric thought it good his parents' standing bills were minimal, and he knew he'd be on his own as soon as he finished school. Thus, it had become all the more important for him to do well at the private lessons with McGonagall and so he threw himself into study, determined to earn a license in Advanced Transfigurations, and Os in every NEWT he took. _The Daily Prophet_ could imply what they wished about his mental state, but they couldn't argue with high marks. He was no drug-addled idiot, and he'd prove it.

Fortunately, Hermione understood. He neither needed to explain nor apologize for his study habits, and if he got tied up in the library, he could count on her to bring him dinner, and he did the same for her. Obsession with their studies provided them with an alternative to obsession with each other. Nor were they alone in anxiety about tests. The first Wednesday in April, Hannah Abbott was taken to hospital after having a minor breakdown in Herbology. Cedric gave her a pep talk later and scolded her for fretting, although he knew it a case of the pot calling the kettle black. Even those used to his academic preoccupations began to worry about him.

Peter showed up in the library on Sunday. Ed was driving the Hufflepuff Quidditch team in preparation for their match against Slytherin after Easter Holidays, Scott was --still -- pursuing Alicia Spinnet, who'd proved quite elusive (which Cedric privately thought Scott loved), and Hermione was off for the moment, helping Harry and Ron, and leaving Cedric alone so he could concentrate. Plopping down across from him, Peter waited for Cedric to find a stopping place in his reading and look up. "What?" Cedric asked crossly.

"You need a good shag," Peter said without preamble.

"_What?_"

"You heard me. You've turned into an absolute terror. Your patience is non-existent, your temper's on the shortest trigger I've ever seen it, and even your one-girl cheering section -- Rose Zeller -- is afraid of you these days."

That got Cedric's attention. _Rose _was scared of him? "I haven't said anything harsh to Rose!"

"Doesn't matter. She's seen you yell at other people." Peter grinned. "I think she thinks you walk on water, you know?"

"Wrong religion," Cedric replied. "Maybe part the Red Sea."

"Whatever. You're a walking nightmare, Ced. You're worse right now than you ever were at any point during the Tournament last year. Do us all a favor and get your leg over."

Cedric glared. "Not with Umbridge watching my every move."

"We'll run some interference, all right! You. Hermione. Tomorrow night."

"Harry called a D.A. meeting."

"All right, whatever. Tuesday then."

Cedric shook his head. "Not going to happen, Adamson."

"Then we'll have to kidnap the two of you and lock you in together, Diggory."

"Get lost and let me finish my reading." Cedric turned back to his book and ignored Peter until his friend gave up and left.

Monday night's D.A. meeting focused on Conjuring a Patronus. Harry had introduced the idea at the previous lesson and tonight they worked on applying it.

Cedric couldn't do it -- which baffled his denmates and Harry both. "You can Transfigure yourself, but not call a Patronus?" Scott asked. Naturally, he'd been the first in their year to produce one, beating even Angelina and the twins. Scott had shown an uncanny talent for Dark Arts.

"You should seriously consider becoming an auror," Harry had told him.

"Not sure I'll pass the Potions NEWT," Scott had said.

"Still -- you should apply," Harry'd repeated. "You're good at this."

Cedric, by contrast, wasn't. Hermione could Conjure a Patronus, and even Cho could do it, producing a lovely swan. Yet after more than half an hour of working at it, the most Cedric could call was a misty, silvery fog -- nothing corporeal at all. He wanted to throw his wand across the room in frustration. "Totally useless!" he snarled.

Hands on hips, Hermione glared over at him. Her silver otter played around her feet. "You're far from useless, and it's in your _head_, Cedric. You could do this easily. You've just convinced yourself you can't."

"Doesn't matter _why_ if I can't do it, does it?"

"Of course it matters if you intend to sort it out!" She harrumphed and turned away. "You're so grumpy lately. You need a happy thought."

He was kept from a sarcastic reply by an opening door, and glanced over; people didn't usually come and go during lessons. He saw no one, but students near the door had fallen quiet, and Harry was approaching them. Finally the crowd parted enough for Cedric to see, even as he felt Hermione grip his right shoulder. It turned out to be the house-elf who'd warned them of Umbridge, the one with all the hats. "Hi, Dobby," Harry was saying. "What are you . . . what's wrong?"

"Harry Potter, sir . . . Harry Potter, sir . . . Dobby has come to warn you . . . but the house-elves have been ordered not to tell . . . "

Cedric rolled his chair a little closer as the elf flung himself head-first into the wall. Harry reached out to stop him even as his plethora of hats cushioned his skull. Cedric recognized immediately what was going on. "Dobby, you're free," he said as the elf turned to look at him. "You're not under any compulsion to obey a master."

With a glance of thanks, Harry asked, "What's happened, Dobby?"

"Harry Potter . . . she . . . she . . . " But he hit himself again -- hard. It made several students wince.

"Stop!" Cedric snapped, growing increasingly worried. "Tell Harry what's happened -- quickly."

Dobby was looking at Cedric as if just recognizing something. "Your mother --"

And Cedric understood. Maybe it would make a difference. "-- is Lucretia, yes. Answer Harry's question, I _command_ you."

At that, Dobby appeared relieved and sighed, and Cedric marveled at how powerful the old binding spells were if a counter-order from the son of a former mistress from a House he'd been freed of three years before could still overwhelm a direct order from his current employer. "Umbridge," Dobby squeaked.

"What about her?" Harry asked, "She hasn't found out about this . . . about the D.A. . . . " but he trailed off as Dobby -- eyes on Cedric -- began nodding frantically.

Turning to the rest, Harry bellowed, "WHAT ARE YOU WAITING FOR? RUN!"

They ran.

Cedric didn't. For him, it was hopeless. Even in the chair, he couldn't possibly get away.

A few of the others didn't run either. His denmates. Hermione. Harry, when he realized. But Cedric had grabbed Hermione by the wrist and shoved her towards the door. "Go!" he shouted. "All of you!" he looked at his friends.

"Cedric --" Harry began.

"Get out of here! You can't save me -- get out! I'll stall her."

"Cedric -- " Ed said this time.

"_Go_, dammit!"

They ran. Harry picked up Dobby on the way and Hermione glanced back over her shoulder at him, but she was too clever not to understand why she had to do as he said.

Facing the door, hands folded in his lap, he waited for the inevitable. Now that it had come, he felt strangely calm, almost fey. But several minutes passed and nothing happened. The door didn't open and Umbridge didn't appear. Because of the nature of the room, Cedric couldn't hear anything beyond, and so had no way of knowing what had transpired outside.

Waiting cracked his resolve, or perhaps it just gave him time to find perspective. He'd been willing to sacrifice himself if necessary, but what if it wasn't necessary? What if they'd all got away? And here he sat, just _waiting_ for them to catch him? Nobility was all very well and good if it served a purpose, but he could just hear his mother's voice scolding him for being a very noble _idiot_. He glanced around, but found no real place to hide. "I wish I had Harry's invisibility cloak."

Rather to his surprise, as he turned his head from looking in the direction of the table with the sneakoscopes back towards the pile of pillows, he spotted gray, silvery material on top of a pillow. Surely that wasn't . . .

He wheeled closer. It _was_. An invisibility cloak. Bending to snatch it up, he unfolded it and flung it over himself and the chair, hoping it would cover the wheels all the way to the floor. Room of _Requirement_ indeed.

Almost as soon as he had the cloak situated, the door finally opened. But it wasn't Umbridge. It was Pansy Parkinson with her bob cut and her frown and her upturned nose. "There's no one left in here, professor," Parkinson was saying. "But I'll see what I can find." She let the door close and Cedric held his breath as she circled the room. She paused by the table full of instruments but seemed to regard the pile of pillows as uninteresting, thankfully. On the way out, however, she spotted Hermione's list tacked up beside the door -- the one that all of them had signed. Cedric had forgotten all about it. "Dumbledore's _Army_?" she read, face astonished. Then grinning in triumph, she ripped it down. Cedric closed his eyes. So much for any hope that some of them would escape.

When Parkinson was gone, Cedric waited another five minutes under the cloak, wondering what to do next. With that list in Umbridge's possession, fleeing seemed pointless but he also wasn't inclined to go gentle into that good night. He still didn't dare exit the door, but if the room had created an invisibility cloak just for his wishing it, what about _another_ door into a different room? "I need a second door." He waited, looking around, but nothing happened. Apparently the room had parameters. If only he had a window --

Well, why not try? "I need a window that opens on the exterior." The room might be too far inside . . . but no. The far end suddenly seemed to disappear into a long corridor and he wheeled over. It wasn't a corridor, precisely, but a deeply recessed window. And there was no way he could access it from the chair. He might not be able to access it at all, in fact, but necessity was the mother of invention, so he got out his crutches and collapsed the chair, pocketing it. Then with the help of a Conjured stool and good arm muscles, he pulled himself onto the ledge. "Next time," he muttered, "I'll ask for a floor-length version."

It took some minutes, but he managed to scoot himself to the end of the recess where he cranked the window open and peered out into night darkness. This was high. And he'd never before tried to Transform while falling. The thought of it was a bit nerve-wracking. But it might also prove to be easier. He wouldn't have to beat his wings so hard immediately in order to gain altitude.

"Here goes nothing." Gripping the crutches, he let himself fall over the edge, wind pulling at him --

-- and the Transformation took him. It had become almost instinctive by this point, as easy as breathing, and he wondered what he'd been worried about. This was, indeed, so _very_ much easier, and he spread his wings as he caught an updraft. He was free.

Now what to do? He might be free, but he was also _outside_, and it was past curfew. He could try the courtyard; being inside the walls, it was marginally less likely to get him into trouble, but it would still raise questions.

_This is moot, _he thought to himself. Umbridge had Hermione's list. They'd all be on their way home by tomorrow morning. Briefly, he wondered if Fudge would really insist that _everyon_e named on that list be expelled, but Fudge was fighting for his job right now. If saving it meant expelling 30-plus students, he would. More likely though, he'd expel those he considered 'ringleaders' (Harry and Cedric, at the very least) and let the rest go with severe punishments.

Cedric needed to find an open window, but that wasn't likely on a chilly April night. Sprout or McGonagall might recognize him and let him in, but it would mean confessing what they'd been up to. Then again, the teachers would know soon enough anyway and he doubted either would turn him over to Umbridge. He flew past their windows, but neither was in. He tried the Headmaster's Tower next, but quickly decided that would be a bad choice. It was full of people, and if he couldn't make out everyone, he spotted Fudge's distinctive bowler hat. That the Minister of Magic had come to Hogwarts boded very ill and he flew past a few more times trying to see who else was in there, trusting to the dark outside to conceal him. He was certain only of Dumbledore's tall form and Umbridge's squat one, but thought he might have seen a girl with curly hair and it froze his heart. Had they caught Hermione?

He _had_ to get back inside the castle. He could use the owlery, since Dumbledore's ban on eagles didn't affect him, but he couldn't get down from it in human form. He decided to try Gryffindor Tower instead, hoping someone would recognize who he was and let him in.

It took almost ten minutes of flying back and forth, back and forth right next to one of the boys' lit dormitory windows before somebody -- Neville, it turned out -- finally opened it. "I think it's Cedric!" he called back inside even as Cedric dove through the opening to land in a Transformed heap on the dormitory floor. It had been a bit too much to hope he'd end standing.

Dean helped him up and onto a chair as Ron grabbed him, practically shaking him. "What happened to Harry?"

"You'd know better than me." Cedric couldn't help but look around himself in curiosity. He'd never been in the Gryffindor dormitories. They were . . . red. "I was going to ask you the same thing. The Minister of Magic is here. He's in Dumbledore's office."

"Fudge? How d'you know that?"

"I flew by the Headmaster's Tower, trying to find somewhere to get in. There's a crowd there, so I flew past a few times, trying to see more, but couldn't make out much."

"How'd you get out of the Room of Requirement anyway?" Seamus wanted to know.

"Told it to make a window so I could fly out."

"Clever," Dean said.

"Umbridge must have got Harry then," Ron said, his face white but his eyes furious. "And the Minister's here? Bloody hell."

"Who else got caught?" Cedric asked, biting his lip and thinking of the curly-haired girl. "Hermione?"

"No, she made it back to the Tower. Apart from Harry, I'm not sure," Ron replied. "Umbridge had her little pets hunting for us in bathrooms and the library, but I think everybody else got away."

"Maybe not. I saw a girl with curly hair in Dumbledore's office. Well, I think I did."

"Wonder who that was? And why'd you come in through _here_? What happened to the front door?"

"It's after curfew," Cedric reminded him.

"Oh, er, right."

"Can I get out of here without being spotted?"

"I'll see who's downstairs," Seamus volunteered, disappearing out the door. None of them spoke, and a minute later, Seamus was back. "About half the House is still in the common room. I don't think you can get out that way without being seen, mate."

"Great."

"Harry's cloak?" Ron suggested.

"I walk like an elephant, visible or not."

But Neville's expression had lightened. "Transform back into an eagle," he said. "We can put you in Hedwig's cage, cover it up and carry you down. No one'll know!"

"That's ruddy clever," Ron said, and Cedric had to agree, except for one problem.

"I won't fit in Hedwig's cage. I'm twice her size . . . " He trailed off then, turning to the cage and pulling his wand. "But maybe we can fix the size problem. _Engorgio!" _The cage obediently expanded. "It's going to be a bit awkward to carry."

"I'll manage," Ron said, and glanced at Neville. "You'd better let me do it. Like he said, it's now after curfew, but I'm a prefect."

So Cedric Transformed and Ron opened the cage door, slipping him inside. Since he couldn't perch, he had to lie awkwardly on the bottom, and was glad Harry had cleaned it. Ron threw a blanket over the top and hauled him out. Fortunately, the evening's excitement had students speculating on that rather than paying attention to Ron carrying an oversized bird cage. Inside, Cedric couldn't see, but he could hear, and was aware when Ron was stopped by Hermione. "What have you _got_?" she asked in a hushed voice.

"Cedric," Ron muttered back.

_"What?_"

"Shhh. Come with me and I'll explain."

They exited the common room and in the hall outside, Ron set the cage down and pulled off the blanket. "Cedric!" Hermione cried, kneeling to open the door and lift him free where he could Transform, whereupon she promptly strangled him with a hug. "I was so _worried_! Umbridge caught Harry and I was just certain she had you too."

"I'm fine," he hugged her back then let her go. Ron was shuffling his feet, looking embarrassed. "I managed to get the room to make a window for me. But" -- glanced from her to Ron -- "Pansy Parkinson came in there to search and found your list -- the one we all signed."

Hermione's hands covered her mouth and Ron turned white. "We're dead," he muttered, then glared at Hermione. "Why'd you make us all sign that stupid piece of paper anyway?"

"That 'stupid piece of paper' had a jinx on it," Cedric told him, glancing at Hermione. "We'll know who ratted." She nodded.

"Oh," Ron said. "But still. We're dead if Umbridge has it."

Hermione looked near tears, hugging herself. "I'm so sorry. I didn't expect her to be able to find it with it being _in_ the Room. How'd Pansy get in there?"

"She just 'needed' to," Cedric told her. "The room doesn't play favorites. And don't blame yourself. If I'd been thinking, I'd have snatched it down and Vanished it." He kissed the top of her head. "We'll just take it as it comes, yeah? No use crying over spilt milk."

"This is a little more than spilt milk! They're going to expel us, Cedric!"

"And fretting will change that?"

"Mum's gonna kill me," Ron moaned. "She ordered me not to do these lessons."

They might have said more, but heard footsteps coming up the stairs and looked over the banister to see who it was**:** McGonagall, escorting Harry. Both appeared a bit shell-shocked, and Hermione ran to embrace Harry when they'd reached the seventh-floor landing. "What happened? Cedric said Umbridge has the list!"

"She did -- does." He stared at her. "He took the blame, Hermione. He took it so we didn't have to." Then he looked past her to Cedric and Ron. "We're not being expelled. But Dumbledore's _gone_."

* * *

**  
Notes:** Dylan Thomas' "Do Not Go Gentle Into That Good Night" was published in the 1950s and if Cedric didn't know Emily Brontë, it's arguable he'd know Dylan Thomas. But I'm going to defend quoting it by saying Cedric is a poet and reads more Muggle poetry than Muggle fiction. (g)


	28. The Hunter Stalked

"Dumbledore's _gone_?" echoed around the castle the next morning. Students weren't sure whether to be proud of their headmaster for escaping capture and confounding Fudge, two aurors, Umbridge, and Percy Weasley, or to be astonished by what he'd done -- and scared of the consequences.

The consequences -- by right of Educational Decree Number 28 -- put Dolores Umbridge in charge of Hogwarts as Headmistress. Nearly everyone in the castle seemed to know what had happened on Monday night, even those who hadn't heard it from Harry or McGonagall . . . which puzzled Hermione until she realized that at least some of the information had come from the ghosts. Not all of them were as prurient as Myrtle, but they were quite curious, and widely aware -- and didn't sleep. Gossip traveled quickly.

"Dumbledore will be back before long," Ernie McMillan announced after Herbology. "They couldn't keep him away in our second year and they won't be able to this time. The Fat Friar told me that Umbridge tried to get back into his office last night after they'd searched the castle and grounds for Dumbledore. Couldn't get past the gargoyle. The Head's office has sealed itself against her. Apparently, she had a right little tantrum . . . "

This information pleased Hermione no end. "Oh, I expect she really fancied herself sitting up there in the Head's office. Lording it over all the other teachers, the stupid puffed-up, power-crazy old --"

"Now, do you _really_ want to finish that sentence, Granger?"

Hermione, Ernie, Harry, Ron and Hannah all spun around. It was Draco Malfoy with Crabbe and Goyle. "Afraid I'm going to have to dock a few points from Gryffindor and Hufflepuff."

"It's only teachers who can dock points from Houses, Malfoy," Ernie reminded him.

"And we're prefects too, remember," Ron added.

"I know _prefects_ can't dock points, Weasel King," Malfoy said as Crabbe and Goyle snorted. "But members of the Inquisitorial Squad --"

"The what?" Hermione demanded.

"The Inquisitorial Squad, Granger." Malfoy pointed to a small silver "I" on his robes beneath his prefect's badge. "A select group of students who are supportive of the Ministry of Magic, hand-picked by Professor Umbridge. Anyway, members of the Inquisitorial Squad do have the power to dock points . . . so, Granger, I'll have five from you for being rude about our new headmistress . . . MacMillan, five from you for contradicting me . . . Five because I don't like you, Potter . . . Weasley, your shirt's untucked, so I'll have another five for that . . . Abbott, you're standing a little too close to MacMillan, so five there. And oh, yeah, I forgot, you're a Mudblood, Granger, so _ten_ for that . . . "

Ron pulled out his wand, but Hermione shoved it down with a "Don't!"

"Wise move, Granger." Malfoy smiled. "New head, new times . . . Be good now, Potty, Weasel King . . . "

He sauntered off, laughing. Ernie and Hannah appeared both appalled and dubious. "He was bluffing. He _can't_ be allowed to dock points . . . even Cedric's not allowed to do that. It would be ridiculous -- completely undermine the prefect system . . . "

But Hermione had turned to look at the giant House hourglasses set in niches in the entranceway that recorded House points. Stones were flying upward even as they viewed it. Only Slytherin still had any notable amount in the lower bulbs, and Hermione was quite sure the Inquisitorial Squad all came from Slytherin.

Fred and George clomped down the stairs, pausing with the other five in front of the hourglasses. From their account, it seemed the New Order had taken hold quickly and viciously, although Hermione was appalled (and amused) to hear what they'd done to Montague, shoving him into a Vanishing Cabinet. "You mustn't!" she said when they admitted to plotting deliberate mayhem. "You really mustn't! She'd love a reason to expel you!"

"You don't get it, Hermione, do you?" Fred said, smiling. "We don't care about staying anymore. We'd walk out right now if we weren't determined to do our bit for Dumbledore first. So anyway, phase one is about to begin. I'd get in the Great Hall for lunch if I were you, that way the teachers will see you can't have had anything to do with it."

"To do with what?" Hermione wanted to know, both fear and excitement rising inside her.

"You'll see. Run along now." George warned.

They obeyed, and Hermione looked about anxiously for Cedric. If Fred and George feared they might be blamed, then Cedric could be too. But Cedric didn't seem to be around and almost as soon as they arrived, Filch appeared behind Harry, saying, "The Headmistress would like to see you, Potter."

"I didn't do it," Harry replied instinctively.

"Guilty conscience, eh?" Filch asked. "Follow me . . . " And he headed off.

Harry glanced back at Ron and Hermione, yet had no choice but to follow. "I don't like this," Hermione told Ron, who simply shook his head in agreement.

Less than a minute later, Cedric came through the doors with his mates. As it was lunch, not dinner, he settled in beside Hermione and bent towards her, whispering, "Something's up. Not sure what, but --"

"Yes, Fred and George warned us to get in the Great Hall to avoid being blamed for it." Hermione glanced around to see who else was present**: **most of the school, actually, and it struck her that only Slytherin kept wholly to themselves these days. Ginny was at the Ravenclaw table by Michael, Cedric sat with Hermione along with Scott and Peter who were talking to Lee Jordan. Ed had gone to sit with Susan, but Neville occupied Susan's other side, reviewing Herbology with her while Ed tried to decide if he should be jealous. And those were but a few. "You know," Hermione said, "Umbridge may have closed your Common Room but I think the Great Hall's turning into a substitute."

Eyes on his plate, he was grinning, "Yeah, I sort of noticed that. Not a bad outcome, is it?"

She covered his left hand with her right, rubbing her thumb over the gold signet ring he always wore now, marking him hers. "Not bad at all," she agreed.

But his eyes were raised towards the Slytherins. "Just wish it wasn't only three Houses."

They were still eating when the explosions started. Cedric actually dropped his fork in surprise and tried to stand, forgetting he _couldn't_ . . . and almost fell off the bench. Hermione grabbed for him to steady him. They didn't say anything just looked at each other. Then she was on her feet, handing him his crutches and making sure the other students didn't knock him down in their haste to exit the hall. "Go on, go on!" he told her. 'Find out what's happening and come and tell me!"

Hermione hurried away, squeezing between people as she said, "I'm a prefect, let me through." Some paid attention to her rank, more didn't. She skidded to a halt in the entranceway as fireworks whizzed down the stairs -- glittering dragons and Catherine wheels and shooting rockets. Her mouth dropped open in stunned surprise. Realizing who must have let them off, she wasn't sure whether to laugh or gasp in horror, but she could hear Umbridge's shrieks of rage upstairs along with Filch's kow-towing whine . . . Oh, she shouldn't giggle at what might get the twins expelled, but this was _priceless_ and knowing Fred and George, delight was the best compliment she could offer.

Running back to Cedric, who'd finally made it out of the Great Hall, she threw her arms around his neck and just laughed helplessly. "_Fireworks!_" she said. "Fred and George."

"They're not burning down the castle, are they?"

"Oh, no."

"Then I say we enjoy them." She pulled away enough to see his delighted grin, the one that showed all his teeth, as he watched a gold dragon sail down the hallway over their heads. "_Brilliant._"

"Quite," she agreed.

The fireworks continued to burn for the rest of the day, entertaining students and teachers alike -- everybody but Umbridge -- and the mutinous atmosphere left Hermione feeling happy and agitated and wanting to do something against the rules herself . . . just because. With Dumbledore gone and Umbridge in charge, Hermione had a hard time taking school seriously. She knew she had OWLs coming up, and knew those exams would determine what she'd do with the rest of her life, but for that afternoon and evening she didn't care -- didn't care about studying or about behaving herself. When she met Cedric in the library after supper at their usual table, she tugged him down behind it below the Butterfly Woman where they'd hidden at the beginning of the year to exchange caresses they weren't ready yet for others to see.

Laughing softly, he asked. "Are you feeling all right, Granger?"

"Now that you mention it" -- she kissed him quickly on the mouth -- "d'you know . . . I think I _am_ feeling a bit . . . _rebellious_."

"Mmm," he said, catching her around the waist and pulling her to him. The next kiss wasn't quick. They spent ten minutes snogging until she just wanted to peel him out of his clothes and watch him convulse as she brought him off. He was panting from need and excitement.

"Room of Requirement," she whispered. "I'll get Harry's map -- meet you there." She started to rise.

"No, Granger." He pulled her back. "We can't get stupid for sex, much as I'd like to. We shouldn't even be doing this. If Pince catches us . . . "

"_Cedric --_" It was almost a whine. "Umbridge is a bit _busy_ tonight. I think we're safe."

"Better not." He pressed his forehead to hers. "Come home with me instead."

"What?"

"Easter Holidays --"

"We have exams!"

"You were the one just advocating taking a night off."

"Well, that's a night! We can't afford --"

"Not all of Holidays," he interrupted. "But we need to get out of this castle, poppet, before we both go mad. Remember Christmas?"

She found herself smiling and pushing her face into his neck. "Yes, I remember Christmas."

"A week, then. We'll take a week at my house, then come back here and work for the second week. We can take our books with us, and my parents have a bit of a library. Not big, but with some good books -- things we'd use here." He pushed her back to stare into her eyes. "Please."

She had no ability to turn him down when he looked at her like that, beautiful eyes wide and expression so serious. "All right," she said. "But we're going to _study_."

He grinned. "Absolutely."

Although she knew perfectly well that wasn't all they'd be doing -- and knowing made it possible to let him go and return to their books, even if they played footsie under the table and sometimes broke into giggles for no reason.

* * *

Cedric sent his parents a letter the very next morning. After Christmas, he doubted they'd mind if he brought Hermione with him but didn't want simply to show up with her. Knowing it was already Wednesday with only two days to wait put him in an exceptional mood -- enough so that when Umbridge called him into her office that evening along with Violet Sykes, he shrugged and went with equanimity. "Please have a seat," she told Violet. Cedric was already in his chair. Violet, Cedric noted, hadn't been made a member of Umbridge's 'Inquisitorial Squad' any more than he had, and he briefly wondered if Madam Toad had called them here only to show them another educational decree relieving them of their offices.

Instead, she smiled at them with sickening sweetness and said, "I thought it time to sit down with you both and outline what _I_ expect of you as student heads. Professor Dumbledore appears to have been a bit . . . well, _lax_." She steepled her hands. "As I'm sure you both know, the offices of Head Boy and Girl are singular honors, and I expect you to conduct yourselves as examples to the larger student body in terms of academic diligence and impeccable discipline. They aren't offices to _abuse_, you understand?"

Her eye lingered on Cedric. He just lifted a brow in reply.

She cleared her throat. "I'm sure we won't have any problems, but I did want to stress that I have . . . somewhat higher _standards_. The student body needs some consistency in these topsy-turvy times, so I hope I can count on you both to help me make this transition as smooth as possible and not condone any . . . mischievousness." Meaning the Weasleys' stunt. "If you have any _information_ about such matters, I expect you to bring it to me just as you would have to Professor Dumbledore. After all, our goal here is the safety and proper education of our students. I'm sure you'll agree."

Violet had straightened in her chair. "If I may ask a question, professor?"

"Certainly, my dear."

"Why have you instituted an 'Inquisitorial Squad'? We _have_ prefects, and with students able to dock points -- something even Cedric and I aren't permitted -- it undermines the authority of the student officers. I can hardly be expected to keep my prefects in line if I'm afraid one of them will take points from Ravenclaw if I scold her for being late to report -- as happened last night."

Umbridge managed to look both uncomfortable and irritated at once. "I'm sure you don't mean Miss Parkinson --"

"That's exactly who I mean, professor." As usual, Violet was blunt and to the point, and Umbridge was torn between increasing annoyance and embarrassment at being called on the carpet by a student. Fortunately, Violet hadn't had any direct confrontations with Umbridge before, or not anything serious, so she could say such things. Cedric would have been silenced immediately. "Pansy was half an hour late with her rounds," Violet went on, "and when she finally did deign to show up, I told her she had detention -- but she told me I couldn't give her detention and took ten points off Ravenclaw out of spite."

"Well, it's a matter of authority --"

"Exactly," Violet interrupted. "_Mine. _Either I'm Head Girl -- or I'm not. Cedric and I can't do our jobs if some students are allowed to go over our heads."

Umbridge looked between them, clearly torn and Cedric watched the frustration play out over her doughy features. She no doubted wanted to maintain some continuity as she'd said, but she couldn't grant Violet an exception and not give it to Cedric -- although Cedric was one of the students she most wanted to contain. "Very well," she said finally, and Cedric was a bit surprised that she'd conceded so easily. But maybe this meeting was more than it seemed? Had Umbridge been given, through the antics of the Weasley twins, a taste of what could happen if the student body rebelled en-mass? She didn't hold as much power as she might seem, and needed to keep Violet, and Cedric, from outright rebellion. Apparent authority wasn't always actual authority.

"Neither of you must answer to my student Inquisitors," she went on, "and for those who are also prefects, you retain your usual authority over them, including the right to hand out detentions. Miss Sykes, Ravenclaw's ten points have been restored. But all that said, the two of you do _not_ have authority over them in the duties for which they were appointed -- specifically surveillance of the student body in order to root out rebellion against Ministry Decrees. And they may, in fact, have authority over _you_, requiring you to divulge information pertinent to an investigation."

Cedric didn't argue; he knew it fruitless. Violet appeared set to for a moment, then reconsidered. "All right, fair enough. But I retain _my_ right to halt anything I doubt is legitimate and request the High Inquisitor's approval. And they shouldn't be allowed to take points from me or Cedric without your approval, either."

It wasn't an argument precisely, more a clever bargain. "Very well," Umbridge agreed. "But I want to stress that I expect both of you to be models of, well, _decorum_ for the other students. Shining examples of Hogwarts' very best."

Cedric thought he might gag; Violet's face was impassive. "Of course we will," Violet said, then stood. "We should get back to our offices, professor. It's almost time for evening rounds."

"Yes, yes," Umbridge said but before Cedric could move his chair, she added, "Cedric, may I speak with you a moment?"

He glanced at Violet, but could hardly refuse. "Of course," he said, wondering what this was about and why she was calling him by his first name. He didn't like what that portended.

Violet left and Umbridge seated herself in the chair Violet had vacated, leaning forward to pat his knee. He went rigid. He didn't want Madam Toad touching him or watching with that predatory gaze, and he wondered now about the wisdom of what he'd done in the prefects' bath, desperate or not, letting her see him half nude. He shifted his chair's wheels under the pretense of turning it to face her . . . and backing it up in the process. She was forced to withdraw the hand and sit up.

"I was quite serious when I said I expected the student Heads to be models of decorum," she began. "That goes for your . . . relationship . . . with Miss Granger. I wonder, in fact, if it might not be time for you to bring that to an end? At your age, there's such a thing as a relationship that's run _too_ long -- become too serious, with all those natural temptations. Perhaps you and Miss Granger should consider seeing other people? After all, you're both still so very _young_."

Cedric couldn't believe what he was hearing, and wasn't sure if the woman were threatening him -- he must break up with Hermione or lose his office -- or if she were under the quite twisted impression she was genuinely looking out for him. Even more, he wasn't at all sure how to reply.

After a long minute while he thought furiously, he said, "I don't think I'd be a very good example to other students if I dropped my girlfriend of over six months for no reason and started seeing other girls. In fact, it'd be a rather poor example, don't you think, professor? Quite callous."

"Oh, Cedric," she sighed in contrived disappointment, "let's be candid. I'm well aware of the . . . _pressures_ that certain girls can put on young men. I'm only concerned for your reputation with a girl like Hermione Granger." She coughed delicately. "After all, she's shown a penchant for _famous_ boyfriends who're _older_ than she is. She may, well, _promise_ certain things . . . but girls like that can get a boy into trouble before he knows what's happened."

It took every bit of control Cedric had not to spit in Umbridge's face. "I assure you, professor, Hermione is nothing like you've implied." He'd have liked to say more but it would've come out at a shout, which would not only get him a detention, but would provide her with proof that Hermione manipulated his emotions. "She's clever, responsible, and _honest_."

Umbridge sighed again and looked at him almost pityingly. "Muggle-born girls . . . you have to understand -- the Muggle world isn't _like_ ours. Their girls don't know _proper_ behavior. All one has to do is look at their clothes -- some of them are barely dressed!"

"I'm sure Minister Fudge shares your thoughts on Muggle-born witches and wizards," he said, viciously pleased when she sat up a bit in alarm.

"Well, now -- Minister Fudge has to think about the whole Wizarding World, but you and I -- both of us wizards born . . . I don't _dislike_ Muggles, of course. That would be bigotry!"

"It would, wouldn't it?"

"But you have to admit, there are _differences_."

She was good. Cedric had to admit she was good. She'd changed tactics three times now when he'd fended off each new one. "Sometimes," he told her, "difference is a source of strength. And now I'd best be going, or I'll be late for report."

In fact, he was quite late and Violet had already handled it. She met him at the door. "All right, Cedric? What did she _want_?"

"Er, do you mean the half-concealed threats, the attempt to get me to break up with Hermione, or the anti-Muggle commentary?" He made a face, "She's awful," then added, "Thanks, for standing up to her in there. If I'd said those things, she'd have given me a detention, not given us back some authority."

Violet frowned. "Well, it is true you've become a bit of a lightning rod, don't you think? Almost as bad as Potter. You didn't used to be so controversial, Ced."

He clenched his teeth. "Controversial? For what -- telling the truth? I was less _controversial_ before I saw Voldemort come back from the dead and lost my _legs_."

She didn't reply immediately, just met his eyes where he occupied his chair. "I believe what you reported about You Know Who -- that's not what I'm talking about. But you catch more flies with honey than vinegar."

"And sometimes you have to forget both and just swat the damn things. We're on the eve of a _war_. I can't do anything but what I've done -- not and look myself in the eye in the mirror of a morning. Umbridge and Fudge are trying to conceal the truth, pretend nothing is going on -- and not teaching students a thing about self defense. That's going to get people _killed_. How long do you think you could hold your own facing a Death Eater?"

Her face went white. "Why would they come after me?"

"Maybe just because you're in the wrong place at the wrong time -- like me." He rolled past her towards his office.

"Cedric --" He turned to look at her. She came forward and knelt beside his chair so they were on a level. "I'm not really one for causes, but I'm not on Umbridge's side. And, well, the Head Boy and Girl should present a united front."

He grinned. "Thanks, Vi."

She smiled back, then spoke softly. "Actually, there's another reason I was waiting for you. There's somebody in my office who needs a sympathetic ear and I never know what to say."

His eyebrows went up but he wheeled towards her office. This wouldn't be the first time she'd asked him to intervene, or sent somebody to talk to him because she wasn't sure how to handle an emotional crisis.

He wasn't prepared for _who_ it was, however.

A red-eyed Cho Chang looked up when he appeared in the doorway. She'd clearly been sobbing but straightened in her seat upon seeing him and wiped her eyes. "Er, um -- I thought you were Violet coming back." She glanced around as if seeking another door to escape through.

He sighed. Violet had set him up. Well, partly -- Cho clearly was upset, and crying students did make Violet uncomfortable. Nonetheless, she'd been dropping increasingly unsubtle hints that he should talk to Cho, and now she'd seized an opportunity to force his hand. He rolled in and gestured the door almost closed. It probably wasn't 'proper' but he didn't want to be overheard. "What happened?" he asked gently.

"Like you care!"

"I do, Cho."

Realizing he wasn't going to let her escape, she dropped pretense and glared. "Do you want to gloat? Are you happy I'm miserable? Are you happy Harry hates me too, now?"

He blinked. This was about Harry? "What did he say? And no -- I'm not happy at all." She frowned at her hands and wiped her running nose again. He Levitated the box of tissues on Violet's desk over to her and she took one, crinkling it in her hands, but seemed reluctant to talk. "Cho, look -- Violet sent me in here because she's no good with this sort of thing. I'm really not here to laugh at you, whatever you think. If it helps any, think of me as Head Boy, not your former boyfriend."

That made her roll her eyes in exasperation. "Cedric, don't be ridiculous. I can hardly think of you as some stranger, and it's a bit, well, _weird_ to talk to an ex-boyfriend about a current boyfriend -- or new _ex_-boyfriend, I suppose."

"He broke up with you?"

"Not in so many words, but yeah, I think that was pretty clearly the implication." She paused, looking up at him, then went on, "He practically _screamed_ at me -- about Marietta. Marietta made a _mistake_. I admit that -- _she_ admits that -- but she's my _friend_. We've been friends for six years. And Harry just . . . he didn't want to hear any of that! Or why she did what she did! He didn't even try to understand." And she related to him the gist of her conversation with Harry earlier that evening. Cedric was reminded of something Remus Lupin had told him back in August about Harry counting loyalty very highly, so he supposed it was no surprise if Harry held a failure of loyalty in especial contempt.

And he was inclined to agree -- loyalty mattered a great deal to him, as well -- but Cho had a kind heart and tended to make excuses for people. It was why she'd put up with his own behavior at the year's beginning for as long as she had. "Why _did_ Marietta tell on us?" he asked as gently as he could -- not in accusation. "She was a member of the D.A. from the beginning and could have turned us in months ago. Why now?"

Cho blew her noise. "Well, to be honest -- it's what happened to your father, Ced. When Fudge sacked him, Marietta got very worried for her mum's job. She didn't . . . she didn't _think_, she just panicked. I went up to hospital to talk to her. She's _extremely_ sorry." Cho looked down at her hands again. "She apologized to me over and over; she hadn't meant to get me into trouble."

Cedric chewed that over. He suspected she'd apologized to Cho more from fear than regret, knowing Cho would forgive her. Wheeling further into the room, he maneuvered his chair until it was next to Cho's, she facing one way and he the other so he could see her face. "You're too kind-hearted," he told her. "To Marietta . . . to me . . . "

"_Harry_ doesn't think so."

"Harry's on a short fuse. Doesn't mean he had the right to yell at you, but he did have a point about Marietta."

"Not you, too!"

"Cho, stop a minute and think, will you? I can understand her fears -- but that doesn't make what she did right. And, well, I'm not so sure she's really all that sorry. I'm irked with her because she knew you'd accept her apology and then defend her. She's taking advantage of you. Don't let her."

Twisting her head, she glared. "_You're_ one to talk."

Yet their breakup was far enough in the past that her words stung less than they might have, and he shrugged. "Why d'you think I've avoided you? I felt guilty for what I did and didn't really think I deserved forgiveness -- but I knew you'd give it if I apologized. It's the way you are. You don't hold grudges and you forgive people, because you're nice. A truly nice person; it's not just a front with you." He smiled at her. "That's what attracted me to you in the first place."

"I don't suppose I'm as _nice_ as Hermione Granger."

"Cho -- don't." He tilted his head forward, looking at her from under his brows. "You and I both know it wasn't working, and it wasn't working before I knew Granger. We're too much alike, you and me, and not enough alike. You found me tedious." She jerked her head up to stare, mouth open. "Go on -- admit it. You listened very politely to everything I said, but it went in one ear and out the other."

She laughed. It was the first time he'd made her laugh since September. "Well, you'd . . . _blather_ about this or that law or decree or act, and how it was going to have this or that consequence and I just . . . I don't _care_ that much about politics! It's so . . . abstract!"

Grinning now, he felt relieved. This was the most honest they'd been with each other in over a year -- maybe the most honest ever. "The only thing we could agree on was Quidditch."

"Well, we didn't exactly _disagree_ on things . . . "

"True. Just bored each other to tears." He held out a hand and after a moment, she put hers in it. "I'm glad you're on our side, Cho. But stop letting Marietta and people like her make you their doormat, yeah? As for Harry, I'll talk to him --"

"No," she said, drawing back her hand and shaking her head. "No. I don't . . . I think I understand him even less than I understood you. And he's . . . " She trailed off, rubbing her nose. "I hate to say it but, he's pretty messed up. Sometimes I think he's just going to fall apart. I always feel like I'm walking on eggshells with him. I'd thought maybe . . . well, he doesn't deserve what he's lived through, and --"

"It's not your job to _fix_ him, Cho. We're back to your tendency to make apologies for people. You can't live your life like that. Stop it." He frowned at her. "Did you ever like Harry or was it --"

"Yes, I liked him! It wasn't some . . . pity date. But I don't feel that anymore, not really."

He nodded. "Then you're better off with somebody else."

She raised her head and looked at him. "But not you." It was half self-admonition, half question. He could still see some interest in her eyes, but more like an echo, a memory of what they'd had, and perhaps a bit of gratitude to him for understanding.

"Not me," he agreed. "Although I wouldn't mind being called your friend again. We were pretty good friends before. If you can forgive me for last autumn." He shrugged. "I was a prat. I just didn't want to hurt you so I avoided everything."

Shaking her head, she half smiled. "You _were_ a prat. But you could've been a lot worse. So yeah" -- reaching out, she gripped his forearm -- "friends. But, well, don't ask me to like Hermione Granger."

"Girls. You're vicious little green-eyed monsters."

Her chin came up. "We are not! She just grates on me. She grated on me even before she took a fancy to you -- I think that's why I was so angry! I couldn't . . . I can't see what you _see_ in her, Ced. She's so _bossy_, such a know-it-all. And you're nothing like that."

He was a bit offended, but also determined not to take it personally. "That's _what_ I see in her, Cho -- she's _not_ like me. And it's why you and I didn't work. Hermione and I balance each other. You and I -- we just exaggerated each other's faults. Like I said -- too much alike and not enough. Same personality, different interests. With Hermione, we have the same interests but different personalities." He shrugged. "What can I say? We seem to work."

Cho rolled her eyes. "Fine. So you two work. I still don't like her." She got to her feet, dropping a platonic kiss on the crown of his head. "Thank you, for understanding about Marietta. She's still my friend and I'll give her a second chance. We learn from our mistakes." She headed out. "Assuming we can find the counter-jinx and she'll ever come out in public again."

She was almost out the door. "Cho?" She looked back in. "I know the counter-jinx."

Her face was astonished. "You do? Will you tell me -- ?"

"No. But I'll Unjinx Marietta . . . _if_ she promises to sign another parchment -- knowing this time it's jinxed, and by me -- promising not to change her mind and tattle on the D.A." Cho was frowning. "That _is_ a second chance, Cho. I can't trust just her given word. She forfeited that. But I'll take the jinx off if she'll make that promise. Sometimes, with second chances, you have to prove yourself."

She met his eyes, then nodded. "I'll tell her and let you know what she says."

* * *

"You are _not_ going to Unjinx her!"

"Yes, poppet, I am -- if she signs the promise letter."

"Don't call me poppet! And I can't believe you're going to . . . just . . . "

"Just what? Didn't the jinx work? It stopped her from talking. And she's lived with it for days now; the whole castle knows what she did. Isn't that punishment enough?"

Hermione glared. She was angry, but also guilty. She knew she was being vindictive but Marietta had violated their trust and could have ruined the life and future careers of everybody in the D.A. And for what? Because she was afraid her mother _might_ lose her job if the D.A. _might_ have been discovered? "I'm still not certain she didn't do it to get ahead with Umbridge."

Cedric shook his head. "I think if that were the case, she'd have done it earlier, and wouldn't have agreed to this. Cho talked to her last night and --"

"So you're chatty again with Cho?"

He cocked his head, gray eyes going silver and hard. "_Don't_ be jealous. You've got _no_ reason."

She wanted to believe that but felt caught off guard. "You used my affection to get that counter-jinx."

He made a disgusted sound. "I asked you about the counter-jinx _days_ ago -- before I talked to Cho or even knew I would. I just wanted to know what it was. Don't accuse me of _using_ you. That makes me furious."

And he did have that _look_ she'd come to associate with Cedric on the edge of losing his temper. She also knew he was right. "Okay. Sorry. I just -- she betrayed us, Ced."

"Yes, she did. And apparently she feels very badly and realizes that what she did was cowardly. I'm as angry with her as you are, but don't tell me you've never done something you knew was cowardly?"

She opened her mouth to say she hadn't, except she wasn't sure she could. "Fine. You can lift the jinx." Not that he'd asked her permission; he'd told her he was going to. "But she'd better not expect any of us to be her friend after that!"

"Of course not." His expression was annoyed. "Heaven forbid you should get down off your high horse long enough to offer _grace_." And he rolled away from her. "I don't trust her either, Granger. That's why I'm making her sign the paper. But I also don't think it's fair to make her live with 'Sneak' across her face for the rest of her life. You've made your point."

Her own face was burning from embarrassment as badly as if he'd physically slapped her. He knew her well enough now to know just where to strike, and she refused to talk to him for the rest of Thursday -- which was just splendid. They were supposed to be leaving tomorrow for a week in each other's constant company?

(The fact he was laughing with Cho before dinner on Thursday had nothing to do with her irritation, she told herself.)

Harry was just as moody, although he wouldn't tell her or Ron why, and in exasperation, Ron moved away from them, down by the twins and Lee Jordan.

Friday morning, Umbridge ran into her in the hall between classes. Her smile was unctuous. "I saw Mr. Diggory speaking with Miss Chang last night -- and this morning too. So good to see them finally making up, although I noticed the two of you aren't together. These teen romances _do_ tend to fizzle after a few months . . . "

Grinding her teeth, Hermione said, "Cedric and I had a quarrel -- that's all. We're still together."

Umbridge's smile widened. "Well, when boys start talking to ex-girlfriends . . . " She let that trail off and waddled away.

Hermione was scarcely able to pay attention in Transfigurations and burst from the classroom when it was over. She didn't know if she wanted to cry or find Cedric and yell at him -- or find him and make him tell her if he honestly was interested in Cho again. They were supposed to leave after her last afternoon class, but she didn't know what to do about that -- doubted he still wanted to take her home with him. At a loss, she escaped into the courtyard. It was damp and cold, but she could smell the tell-tale _green_ that promised spring was just around the corner.

Huddled on a bench near an oak, she wrapped arms around herself and brooded. Lunch was half over before Cedric found her there. He was in his chair and it struck her that he'd been in the chair a lot this past week; she wondered if he were trying to stave off another attack. "I came to ask if you're, er, packed?" he said.

She stared at him. "You still want me to come?"

"Do you want to come?"

"I asked you first."

"Granger -- "

"Did Marietta sign your parchment?"

"Yes, she did."

Her lips thinned and she said, "I still don't trust her." He sighed, sounding exasperated. "You don't _approve_, do you?" she asked.

"You're just angry with me because I called you on holding a grudge. You want me never to argue with you? I told you at the beginning I wasn't going to do that."

Her anger flowed away and her shoulders slumped. "It's not arguing with you. It's -- " How could she say that sometimes he made her feel very young and not at all clever . . . and that wasn't a feeling she liked.

"It's what?" he asked now, a slight edge in his voice.

"It's nothing."

He frowned down into his lap where his hands were folded together inside their fingerless gloves. He looked as if he wanted to say something, but wasn't sure what. Silence stretched. "Why are you in the chair?" she asked after a moment, to change the subject.

He looked up at her. "My legs are hurting. It's been a bit _stressful_ this week." He paused again. "Do you want to talk?"

"About what?"

"Stop being obtuse. You were going to say something, then backed down, and you don't sound like you want to come with me for holidays. I thought -- " He hesitated, then spit out, "Umbridge was happy to _inform_ me this morning that the Bulgarian Quidditch team will be in Edinburgh next week. I tried not to be jealous, but I know you still write to Krum and --"

"What?!" Hermione's jaw dropped. The Bulgarian . . . Umbridge had told him _that_? "You thought I might want to . . . I didn't even know they'd be here! And I've never made a secret of writing to Viktor! Umbridge told me _you_ were talking to Cho!"

He frowned. "You saw me talking to Cho last night. For all of five minutes."

"Umbridge said you were with her again this morning. In fact, she assumed we'd broken up."

There was a sudden, cold smile on his lips. "That _snake_. We've been played, Granger. She saw we were quarreling and took advantage of it."

Holding his eyes, she drew her legs up on the bench again and wrapped arms around them. "I have no plans to see Viktor, even if he were in town. But I wasn't sure you'd want me to come with you with . . . well, like things are now." Umbridge may have played them, but she'd only taken advantage of a genuine argument.

"You think if I go away for a week, things will magically be better when I get back?"

She frowned. "I really hate it when you patronize me, Cedric."

His mouth dropped open. "Patronize you! I'm _patronizing_ you if I tell you that you're like an elephant with your grudges?"

"You think I'm immature!"

"I said no such thing! But I _do_ think you're being a stubborn idiot right about now!"

And they were right back to where they'd been the day before. Her pride and his conviction that he held the moral high ground -- yet it was that very same conviction she loved most about him. Cedric was an honestly _good_ person. It had set him in opposition to Umbridge and made him insist that Harry take the Triwizard Cup with him, resulting in his crippling. It had made him help Harry in the Tournament in the first place, and had even made him, two years ago, call for a rematch when Harry had fallen off his broom during a Quidditch game.

That was simply who Cedric was -- that insistence on doing what he thought right, no matter how much it cost him. He could be as shrewd and cunning as his Slytherin mother, but he couldn't _not_ do the right thing when it affected others, no matter how inconvenient. He had too much compassion, and that made him unbelievably strong. Annoying sometimes in his integrity, but she realized he'd become her moral compass. There were lines in the sand he wouldn't cross, even in the name of pragmatism or success -- and he wouldn't let her cross them, either. It was comforting in a way, even as it shamed her a little. She feared letting him down, and so felt a need to justify herself -- even if she knew she wasn't acting quite right.

"Okay -- fine. I got a bit carried away about Marietta, but I was really angry. She betrayed us. She hurt people I care about."

"I know, Granger." Bending forward, he took her hand in his. "You'd make a good Hufflepuff, you know -- you're loyal. And I _don't_ think you're immature. But I also don't think you're always right."

She laced her fingers through his. "It's just that sometimes, the way you say it -- it makes me feel . . . stupid. Or young. Or . . . bad."

"I'm sorry." He opened his mouth to say more, then shut it.

"You _do_ think those things about me, don't you?" Shame squeezed her chest again.

He smiled almost sheepishly. "Maybe a bit -- but I think those things about _me_ at times. I won't blame you for not being perfect if you won't blame me for it, all right?" He shrugged. "I don't expect you to be perfect but I'll tell you when I think you're wrong. I won't pretend it's okay."

She rubbed her thumb over his fingers. It was a truce.

* * *

For Cedric, among the more annoying problems related to his handicap was moving outside his normal routine. Things he did everyday -- simple hygiene, getting dressed, getting to classes and to meals -- none of these took planning anymore. Traveling was another matter. Even if he were just going home where he'd be back to the familiar, there was still the small matter of getting there.

They could've taken the Hogwarts' Express as they'd done at Christmas, but with only a week, he didn't feel like wasting a day of it on the train, not to mention it would mean waiting another night. He'd reached a point he couldn't bear the thought of spending even one more evening at Hogwarts.

That left limited options. Apparating all the way from Scotland to the south of England simply wasn't possible -- the distance was too great -- and the Knight Bus would leave him smashed like a bug on the back window. Portkey wasn't wise for less than an emergency, as when he'd lost his legs, he'd lost the ability to land in any way besides a heap, and floo presented similar problems.

Unless he was _sitting_ -- that, he thought he could manage. Umbridge naturally tried to block his departure by insisting he go by train like everybody else or not at all, but Sprout pointed out that Cedric was of age and once he stepped off the castle property during holidays, he was outside the school's jurisdiction. Hermione had a letter from her mother, permitting her to leave with Cedric. So they went into Hogsmeade, where Madam Rosmerta let them use the floo in The Three Broomsticks, which -- being an inn -- had been built nice and large to accommodate guests with luggage. Sprout gave them the floo powder.

Flooing while seated was . . . an experience, and he practically fell out of the fireplace when he arrived, but he supposed he'd best get used to it. Hermione had gone first with the luggage, and Crookshanks and Esiban, and his father was there to catch him before he tumbled onto his side, but he still felt ungainly. "Didn't eat anything, did you?" his father asked, helping him to stand. "Do I need to get a pot?"

"No, dad." He was blushing.

Hermione looked quizzically from him to his father and his father opened his mouth to explain even as Cedric pleaded, "Please don't tell her --"

"There was a certain _unfortunate incident_ when Ced was about six . . . "

"Please --" Cedric tried once more, knowing it was a lost cause given the grin stealing onto Hermione's face matching the one already on his father's.

"Do you have to embarrass him, Amos?" Cedric's mother had just entered the gallery, her hands still covered with paint. Cedric threw her a grateful look.

"No, no -- I want to hear this," Hermione said. She'd already released Esiban but still held a squirming Crookshanks.

"Well," Cedric's father went on, "we'd gone shopping in Diagon Alley and Ced had eaten far too many sweets, although we warned him not to. We took the floo home and the minute he stepped out of the fireplace, he vomited all over the gallery rug. So now it's a bit of a joke to ask if he's eaten anything and wants a pot if he arrives by floo."

Hermione was laughing, Cedric was blushing, and his mother was rolling her eyes. "It's really not that funny, Amos, after the two-hundredth time."

"Well Hermione here's only heard it once."

"And I'm sure it won't be the _last_." She looked from Cedric to Hermione. "Come on, you two. Berry should have dinner ready before long."

However exasperating that start to the holidays, it was also mundane and familiar and easy. He and Hermione spent dinner catching up his parents on everything Cedric hadn't trusted to post, then hearing what news they had about reactions in the larger Wizarding World to recent events at Hogwarts, and Dumbledore's flight. "People bought Fudge's accusations," Cedric's father said with great disgust. "Well, most people. A few have better sense."

"He's the most powerful wizard in England, Amos," his mother said, spearing spring asparagus. "Perhaps the most powerful wizard in all Europe. That frightens people. We have to trust he'll do the right thing because who could control him if he didn't? Granted Kingsley was on our side, nonetheless, I have little doubt that nobody in that office could have stopped his escape."

Cedric frowned. "You're saying that people automatically distrust him just because --"

"-- he's powerful? Yes. When someone attains the sort of influence that Albus Dumbledore has, public opinion tends to run one of two ways -- either he's all good, or he's a villain. There's no middle ground. They hold him to a higher standard." She stared at Cedric. "Keep that in mind. I'm afraid some of it has spilled over onto you."

"Me?" Cedric was genuinely shocked and practically dropped his fork. Hermione looked up too.

"Do I really need to explain to you that you're famous, dear heart?" His mother's expression was amused.

"Well, no, mum, actually, I sort of figured that out." It came out more sarcastic than he'd meant and he saw his father's mouth open to rebuke him, but she raised a hand.

"People want to put you on a pedestal, Cedric -- or knock you off of it. Repercussions of the spotlight."

"I'd be happy to get _out_ of the spotlight if somebody would just show me where to exit the stage."

She smiled. "Not so easy." She glanced at Hermione. "You too. Whether due to Cedric or to Harry Potter, attention sometimes focuses on you. You and Cedric make a very pretty couple and can let that work for you if you give it some thought, but if you try to hide your heads in the sand and let the press make hay, they will. Everybody loves a good _scandal_. But they also love a happy story and a bit of romance."

Cedric sat back. "Why are you telling us this?"

"Because like it or not, the Wizarding World is watching you. Sometimes you're a bit too modest. Use that spotlight you dislike so."

"You're charismatic," Hermione said from across the table. "When you want to, you eclipse everybody else in a room." He frowned at her. She was ganging up on him with his mother, and he hoped this wasn't evidence of a future pattern.

His mother was nodding, and his father too. "She's right, Ced," his father said.

And he felt suddenly uncomfortable, even here with his family and girlfriend. He didn't really eclipse everybody in a room, did he? Yet the honest, analytical side of him recognized it to be true. It wasn't only his looks or his height. He had that, to be sure, but it was some indefinable _more_, and a part of him preened under the attention even while the other side of him was deeply bothered by it. He felt undeserving.

Scratching the back of his head, he kept quiet, unsure how to reply. His father had returned to his roast but his mother watched him think about it. "You know it's true," she said softly. "False modesty is annoying, Cedric. And irresponsible. Own up to the truth and handle it."

"Handle it _how_?"

"Think about what you do. You must operate in two arenas -- the private and the public. Unlike most people, you simply can't assume that what you do and say is private."

"I know that, mum. I'm Head Boy, and I was a prefect. I'm well aware that people watch me."

"This is more than that."

"What is this _about_?" he asked. "Do you know something I don't? Because I can't quite decide how this advice _relates_. Yes, I'm Head Boy. But I'll be done with that office in two and a half months. Then I'll just be one more kid finished with school, out looking for a job --"

"Exactly," his mother interrupted. "Except you're not . . . just _one more_. You're Cedric Diggory. You can't pretend you're not. Be humble -- people like that -- but don't be _ignorant_ in it." She set down her own fork and met his eyes. Hermione watched and so did his father. "There are people who will interview you just to say they talked to you. There are people who will stop you on the street for the same reason. Think about everything you say and do when you're in the public eye. Harry's no good at this. He's proved it again and again. But you -- I raised you for this, Cedric. You _can_ do it. It's in your blood and bones; it's your natural gift. Use it. People will love you if you let them." She glanced again at Hermione. "Both of you. Be sympathetic, be humble, be heroic and honest, even be pretty. But most of all, be _aware_, children."

Cedric looked across the table at Hermione, who appeared a bit startled. He didn't think she'd anticipated this backfiring on her, as well. She wasn't comfortable in the spotlight -- preferred to work behind the scenes. Yet he also recognized that his mother was right, and not only in her advice about handling public attention, but in her admission that she'd raised him for it. She had -- from the first time she'd used him as a model, or pushed him forward to be noticed. 'Don't be afraid, you can do it.' She'd schooled him in everything from how to move when eyes were on him, to how to how to speak before a crowd. She'd taught him what she'd been taught. How to be watched, how to be seen, how to be talked about. After all, she was a Malfoy.

And so was he, whatever his last name.

"Yes, mother," he said now.

After supper he headed to his room to unpack and Hermione headed upstairs to do the same. "I need to brush my teeth." It made him smile; daughter of dentists indeed. Yet when he entered his room, he found two trunks nestled side-by-side beneath the window -- hers and his. He was still staring at them, puzzled, when Hermione came back down to stick her head in his door. "Did your parents put me in a different room?"

Plopping down on his bed and rubbing the bridge of his nose, he replied, "Er -- maybe so?" And he indicated the pair of trunks.

Mouth open, she stared as well. "Maybe your dad just moved them in here and didn't finish?"

He shook his head and glanced around at her. "It's not exactly difficult to've moved yours upstairs the same as at Christmas."

Her face was coloring. It was rather cute. "Um --"

He rose from the bed. "Go and brush your teeth. Let me talk to mum."

His mother was in her studio on the second floor, cleaning up from her day's work. "Mother?" She looked around as he entered. "Hermione's trunk --"

"-- is in your room, yes." She cocked her head. "You object?"

"Well, er, I know you knew but, um, does dad . . . ?"

"Your father _put_ them there. We discussed the matter before you arrived."

"Oh." That meant his mother had told his father which end was up. "And he's all right with it?"

She smiled. "Cedric -- you're eighteen. And you've been with the same girl for more than half a year. Your father is hardly a fool." She turned back to her tarps, rolling them. "He quite likes Hermione -- as do I. Act responsibly, behave yourselves in public -- but let's not play games in private, shall we? If you intend to sleep with her, then _sleep_ with her. It's all very exciting when you're sneaking around, almost getting caught in the prefects' bathroom -- "

She _knew_ about that? Cedric felt his jaw drop and his face flush.

" -- but being a grown-up means the whole mundane reality. Perhaps it's time the two of you found out what it's like to share a bed the whole night and fight over the sheets and who takes up all the space, and who snores loudest." She finished her rolling to look up at him again. "That's _love_, Cedric. It's not romantic. It's pragmatic. Now go and see if you can survive a week in the same bedroom as your girlfriend. If you can, then you just may have something real."

So he went back downstairs and found Hermione waiting for him, sitting on the edge of his bed. He paused in the doorway and, balancing on one crutch, ran a hand through his hair. "Um -- it wasn't a mistake. Mum . . . sort of figured it out over Christmas. The stairs squeak." Her face was stark. "They're not angry," he hastened to add, "sort of the contrary. They . . . want us to see if we can survive a week together."

She was gaping now. "Do they . . . well, do they know we haven't . . . I mean, that we've not, er, done _that_?"

Coming further inside, he gestured the door closed. "This isn't about sex," he told her. "It's . . . well, it's about getting along."

"They don't think we can?"

"They don't think we _have_. Not day in, day out like this." Abruptly, his mood flipped from horribly embarrassed to a bit excited. "It could be fun."

Reading his face, she smiled tentatively too. "Yeah, it could."

* * *

**  
****Notes:** Minor change -- Hannah was not originally in the group with Ernie when the trio discovered the "Inquisitorial Squad." The manipulation at the top was made by Ginger001, and is used with her permission.


	29. Ragnarok

That first night, they wasted no time in ditching clothes and making up for lost opportunity. If they tried nothing new, they also didn't need to worry about interruptions, and fell asleep afterwards curled around each other. But Cedric shifted a lot in his sleep, perhaps in response to pain. If they'd slept together before, it had been only for a few hours, not a whole night. How was she supposed to get any rest with somebody who wiggled as much as he did? And he snored, too. "Roll over," she told him at one point, hoping that being on his stomach would halt that. It did, at least until he rolled onto his back again.

Somewhere in the wee small hours of morning when it was still dark, she felt the bed moving and raised her head to see him sitting up to put on his braces. "What time is it?" she asked, baffled.

"About five-thirty."

"Why are you getting up _now_?" Cedric wasn't especially a morning person.

"Going to the toilet."

"Don't you have a urinal?"

He glanced over at her. "Well, yes, but --"

"Use the urinal, Cedric." And she flopped back down.

There was a pause of almost half a minute while he struggled with the suggestion, then she felt him ease back down and turn on his side away from her, reaching for the white plastic on the bedside cupboard. He opened the urinal and she heard the quiet hiss of liquid hitting a container wall. She pretended to be asleep again. Having him pee in the same room with her felt as oddly intimate as sex; it was one of those necessary bodily functions, but not at all romantic.

They both slept quite late. It was almost noon before she woke, and he was still sleeping. He'd been exhausted from stress, even after sex the night before. She spooned up behind him, waking him with kisses down his spine and across his shoulders. Turning, he grinned at her and the frustrations of the night melted away, until she realized 'morning breath' really was awful. Unlike her, he couldn't hop out of bed to go and brush his teeth then hurry back.

The day was spent studying at the big oak table in the dining room and helping his father in the barn. That night and the one after, they made love again -- or whatever one would call everything but intercourse. They hadn't tried that yet, but she thought they probably would before they returned to Hogwarts. By the fourth night, however, it took him a bit to get off. "All right, Cedric?" she whispered afterwards, wondering if she should worry.

"I'm fine," he said, although his voice sounded a little tight.

On the fifth night, Tuesday, they kissed a while but he didn't get hard. "Can we just cuddle?" he asked finally. Nodding because she didn't know what to say, she snuggled up next to him and for the first time, they simply _slept_ together.

The next morning after breakfast, they went for a walk down the lane running in front of his house. Not being at school, he had to keep up his exercise. Esiban scampered ahead of them on the gravel but Cedric moved slowly, as if he were in pain or unhappy. "Are you all right?" she asked him.

"I'm fine," he said.

"I mean -- last night. You weren't . . . upset with me?"

Glancing over at her, he said quietly, "No."

They fell silent and several tense moments passed, then she asked, "I haven't done something wrong, have I? In bed. I haven't done something to upset you?"

"_No!" _He was blushing. "I was just -- it didn't have anything to do with you, Hermione, just with me. I'm sorry."

She was blushing furiously too, but was more scared and not sure how to pursue the topic -- wondering what to say that wouldn't leave him feeling as if he'd failed. Thinking furiously, she finally tried, "We've not, well, had a chance to do it _every_ night before. Maybe it's normal not to want to? Every night? Even if you love somebody?"

The look on his face was pure relief, as if he hadn't thought of that. "Yeah. Maybe not." They walked a little further, then he added, "My lower body's been bothering me for the past few weeks -- not like it does when I can't get out of bed, but . . . well, I know it's the stress . . . " he trailed off. "I've been taking a bit more Abdoleo than usual."

She hadn't even considered how his _medication_ might complicate things, and nodded. Reaching out, she tangled fingers in his robes -- plain ones for home wear. Outside school, he still dressed like a wizard but even after five years, she didn't. She found robes awkward. They'd reached the big oak on the north edge of the Diggory land; it was their turn-around point. Cedric had to balance pushing himself a little versus pushing himself too much. "I could give you a massage," she offered.

Turning his head, he grinned. "Won't help my legs, Granger. But thanks."

"Who said it had to help your legs?" Or not directly. "I just wondered if you might like one?"

He eyed her, expression amused -- which was better than embarrassed and upset. "All right."

So late that afternoon when they were finished studying for the day, she made him stretch out on the bed on his stomach, then put the lotion she'd borrowed on her hands and rubbed him down. She kept her touch firm and almost clinical, and her clothes on, although she'd made him strip off everything but his underpants. Even if she was hoping this turned into more than a simple massage, she didn't want to start there and put him under pressure. That he was tense came as no surprise, even after five days at home. They would be going back on Sunday, and exams began in a little over seven weeks. Both those things weighed on him.

After twenty minutes, he'd relaxed enough that his muscles moved easily under his skin and she paused to bend down and kiss the nape of his neck, felt him shiver. "Roll over and let's do the front," she whispered in his ear, running her hands over his shoulders and down his arms to his hands.

"The front?" he murmured, one eye opening where his head was turned to the side. He was smiling. "Exactly what do you plan to massage?"

She rolled her eyes at him and helped him turn. "I still need to do your chest and shoulders and thighs, you berk. Although if you want me to massage other parts of your anatomy, I might be convinced if you ask nicely."

He laughed but lay passive under her hands. "You've pretty much turned me into a useless puddle," he told her after a while, his head back and chin up.

Bending, she kissed his mouth. "That's good." But when she tried to pull away again, he didn't let her. The massage was forgotten, and he had no trouble at all getting hard. He'd been halfway there when she'd turned him over, and now she let him get her out of her clothes as she stripped him free of his pants.

Lying side by side, it didn't take long at all until they both hung trembling on the edge, hands busy as they kissed, his tongue sliding against hers. She had one leg twisted sideways, knee raised so he could get fingers inside her while his thumb pressed against her clit. Two fingers felt all right now as he moved them rapidly in and out; there was a spot in there that created a different sort of tension, less sharp but more profound. Her body strained for it, back arching as she whispered, "Faster." She'd forgotten about stroking him and he raised himself up on one elbow, watching her face and bending to kiss her breasts. Her whole body was undulating in time with his hand.

"Come on," he whispered, speeding up until her orgasm broke over her in successive waves, intense and shuddering and lasting longer than usual. It curled her onto her side, his hand pinned between her thighs. He was kissing her neck and shoulder. "Good?" he asked after a bit, freeing his hand, and she nodded, eyes shut, sleepy and sated. Then she heard an indrawn breath. "Hermione?" She opened her eyes to look at the hand he held aloft. The fore- and middle fingers were streaked with red. "What --?"

For just a moment, she thought her period had started, but it wasn't that time of the month. Then it dawned on her. "You broke my hymen."

"What?"

"You _do_ know what a hymen is?"

"Well, yes! But I didn't . . . I mean we didn't . . . "

She grinned at him. "Hymens get broken lots of ways, including things that have nothing to do with sex -- although in this case, I don't suppose we should be too surprised. We got a bit . . . vigorous."

He blushed and laughed both. "Are you all right? It didn't seem like I really hurt you."

"No, I didn't even feel it, or rather, I didn't notice." She grinned back. "Other things sort of overwhelmed it."

"Good." He Conjured a tissue to wipe his hand, then tossed it aside as she pushed him over onto his back and climbed atop him, straddling his hips. She was very wet on him and he hissed, eyes falling closed. Bending so that her breasts touched his chest, she moved back and forth, coating the whole underside of his cock while he rocked up against her. She knew he liked to feel all her skin on his. This was as close as they could get to sex without actually having it and sometimes she wondered what was stopping them. But she already knew the answer. Fear of pain on her part -- and reluctance to hurt her on his.

She could feel his motion starting to get jerky and he'd gone from silence to hissing softly, "_Yes_," and "So good." Then he buried his face against her shoulder and she heard him mutter, "Want to be inside." He hadn't said that in a long time, and she wasn't sure if it were an actual request or just something said in the throes of passion. Or maybe it _was_ a request but he was hoping she'd take it for the throes of passion if she didn't want to do it. Cedric could say things in round-about ways.

And perhaps it was time. He'd been waiting patiently for her, and these half-obscure appeals dragged out of him in extremity were about as close as he'd get to pushing. She'd cast the necessary spell earlier, as their messing about these days had passed a point of safety.

Lifting herself up on her knees, she reached down, getting a hold of his cock and positioning it at her entrance. Her hand was shaking a bit with a sudden attack of nerves now that she'd made up her mind. This was the last frontier and she really didn't know what to expect, even while she knew the mechanics perfectly well. That still didn't tell her what it would be _like_. His eyes flew open and he gripped her hips in surprise, his sex-fogged brain apparently struggling to catch up. "You're . . . uh, you're sure? I mean, you're ready?"

"Yes," she replied, and thought her voice sounded a bit tense but either he didn't notice, or he did but was too far gone to pull back now. His face looked almost transported.

She lowered herself on him . . . but he just fell sideways with a plop instead of going in. She had to reach down and raise him again, but the second time was the same, and it clearly didn't just _slide_ in. Nor was he helping. His eyes were squeezed shut and he held onto her, his body straining upwards but he didn't have enough strength in his legs to thrust. Lifting herself a third time, she got a hold of him more firmly and held on as she lowered herself. Her legs were shaking and she wasn't sure if that were due to strain or from nerves.

She felt just the head enter and he hissed, eyes screwed up tighter. "Am I hurting you?" she asked.

"No!" He was practically panting. "How about you? All right, Granger?"

She wasn't sure. It wasn't comfortable, but it didn't quite hurt. Maybe this would be okay. She tried moving down on him a little more --

And that _hurt_.

She froze up, her muscles tightening automatically. "Ow! Don't clench!" he begged.

"I can't help it! It hurts!"

"I thought we already broke your hymen?" He blew out and seemed to be trying to focus. "Okay, relax. You've got to relax, Hermione." He raised his hands to her breasts and rubbed the nipples.

But she wasn't aroused and it just felt odd. Pushing his hands away, she bit her lip and tried again, sliding down on him another millimeter. But anticipating pain now, she clenched worse and it _burned_. She pulled back instinctively so that he fell out yet again. He grunted in sheer frustration and she wanted to swear. Raising herself one more time, she let him grip his own cock, holding it still while she parted the lips of her vagina with shaking fingers, hoping that would help. Then she could just . . . push herself down on him. It'd be over in an instant.

Except her body had other ideas and she couldn't even get him inside now, she was so tight, her legs weak from adrenaline and her belly sick. "Relax!" he kept saying, trying not to sound as irritated as she suspected he felt, and he stroked her hip and thigh with his free hand. "Relax."

She was pushing down on the head of his penis, trying to force him in when it happened -- the orgasm he'd been struggling to contain got away from him and he ejaculated all over her. "Bloody hell!" he snarled. "Sorry, sorry -- "

"It's okay," she said, looking down between them involuntarily. Her pubic hair and his hand were coated in white semen.

She climbed off of him and the bed altogether, standing there on the spring-cold floor, arms wrapped around herself, his fluids and hers trickling down the inside of her thighs. He sat up, face concerned. "Hermione?" Abruptly -- feeling completely humiliated -- she burst into angry tears and panic took over his expression. Scooting towards the bed edge, he slid his legs over the side. "Hermione!" She was too far away for him to grab. "_Hermione_ . . . please -- come here. Did I hurt you?"

She shook her head. "You didn't hurt me." Well, he had, but no more than necessary, she supposed. "Not . . . " She trailed off, unsure what to say. She wasn't used to _failing_ at things. She was the one who got spells on a first try, or at least before anybody else in class. She made Os on her tests and excelled at lessons. But she'd flunked _sex_? The one thing even the stupidest human beings seemed able to manage with ease?

How could she _fail_ at this? She wanted him, she loved him -- what was wrong with her?

She glanced around a little helplessly, feeling wooly-headed, and wondered if she were in shock. "Hermione," he said again, "please come here. You're scaring me, you're so white."

She did as he asked and felt his free arm go around her waist, then he was settling her in his lap despite the mess on her legs. "Poppet? I'm really sorry -- it's not supposed to be like that. Honestly. I'm sorry I came so fast, and I didn't really prepare you. I got overexcited and -- "

"It's not your fault," she said, wiping her eyes; the foggy surprise inside her was breaking up to expose something raw and angry beneath. _"I'm_ the one who tensed up so you couldn't even get _inside_ -- " She climbed off his lap, pulling away from his arm. "I need to clean up."

"Hermione -- don't go yet."

But the one advantage of having a crippled boyfriend -- he couldn't chase her. Grabbing his yellow robe, she threw it on and fled out the door.

"Hermione!" She ignored him and hid in the main bathroom, hoping his parents didn't come to see what he was shouting about. Then she sat down on the toilet before she collapsed, and spread her legs to inspect the damage, probing carefully with her fingers.

However much it had hurt in the process, she didn't seem that sore now. After all, he hadn't actually got inside. But she found herself suddenly wanting a bath, as if she could clean up her shameful inadequacy along with her body. Leaning over, she turned on the tap in the bathtub and waited for it to get warm while hunting for a flannel to wash with.

* * *

Cedric wasn't about to let her get away with walking out on him. He was angry, he was scared and he was confused. He hadn't really expected first-time intercourse to happen without a hitch, but he'd never heard of anything like _this_. She'd closed up like a drawbridge, and if he might have forced his way in, that would have hurt them both. Besides, forcing her felt too close to rape even if she'd agreed.

He slipped on underpants and expanded his chair, refusing to take precious time to put on the braces, then locking the chair wheels, he levered himself off the bed and into it. Opening the door, he wheeled out into the hall. Fortunately, his parents didn't seem to be anywhere in sight. At this time of day, his father was probably with the animals and his mother in her studio. He stopped outside the bathroom door and listened. He could hear water running and it almost hid the snuffling, but not quite, and that he'd made her cry went right through him.

Maybe he should have put her off again as he had in the bath a month ago, but he'd been planning to suggest they try intercourse while they were here anyway, he just hadn't planned on it being today. He'd been relieved to get it up at all, and earlier, had taken as little Abdoleo as he could bear, so he hadn't been holding back and was too close to climax when she'd raised up to put him inside. Instead of paying her proper attention, he'd been trying not to come.

He started to knock, but then didn't. She'd probably tell him to go away, and the chair was quiet enough he didn't think she knew he was out here. He opened the door and let it swing inward to reveal a naked Hermione bent over the tub to test the water. She let out a little squeak and -- rather amusingly -- moved hands to cover herself. He rolled in and shut the door, and she let her hands fall, face shifting from surprise to resentful anger. He was glad the house was old and the bathroom large enough to accommodate a free-standing tub in addition to the toilet and basin -- plus two people, one in a chair. "I said I was coming to clean up," she admonished.

"No, you were running out on me and that was your excuse." He couldn't quite look at her. "Did I hurt you?"

"I told you no. Or not, you know, like you mean. I knew it would hurt, I'm just too much of a frigid _prude_ to do what every other girl can manage!"

Her words were so bitter, they made him look up at her. "Hermione, don't be ridiculous -- you're neither frigid nor a prude -- or at least, not any more of one than I am. What the problem_ is_, I'm not sure. Maybe just bad timing. I was a little too ready; you weren't ready enough." He rubbed at his eyes even as she seemed to remember the filling tub and turned to shut off the tap. "Between my drugs and this, sharing a room hasn't been all that successful, has it?"

She glared back at him. "You had a legitimate reason. My _little problem_, on the other hand, is all in my head." She looked back at the tub, as if considering whether or not to get in.

"Go ahead," he told her. "I'll wash your back." That made her smile, but it was bitter. "What's so funny?"

"Pansy Parkinson said I'd gone from fetching your snacks on the train to washing your back -- and she didn't mean back."

"Well, I do. Get in." She did as he ordered and sat down while he picked up the flannel and leaned over the edge of the white tub to soak the cloth then draw it over her shoulders and back. He needed to touch her because he felt uncertain and worried and touching her calmed him as much as it might calm her. He didn't really know what more to say, and didn't think she did, either. She sat with her head hanging, chin against her chest. He dropped the flannel and leaned over a little more so he could rub her shoulders as she'd rubbed his earlier that evening. It was an awkward angle, and the wheels on his chair kept him from getting right up next to the tub, but he wanted to give back to her. "That feels nice," she said.

"Good."

Silence fell again. There was just the sound of the water lapping the bath edges, her breath and his, and the occasional squeak of his skin against the tub's edge. Lamplight turned the water gold and caught in her hair. She'd pinned it up. Pausing, he pulled out the hair slips so that it all fell down and he could get his hands in it. He knew he was making it wet, but didn't care. This was about contact.

She caught one of his hands and brought it up to her mouth, setting a kiss in the middle of his palm and closing his fingers around it. "I'm really sorry about earlier," she whispered.

"Shh," he said, running the back of that hand over her cheek. "I bet we'll be laughing about it in a month."

He heard her breath hitch and for a moment, thought she was laughing now, then realized exactly the opposite -- she was crying again. "Hermione . . . "

"I'm a complete and total failure at sex!" she said, voice furious. "A hundred other girls could make you happy! You've been so patient with me and all I did was frustrate you!"

And like an epiphany, he understood. He should probably have figured it out before, but he'd been more concerned with his own premature ejaculation and the puzzle of _why_ she'd clenched up on him so badly. Hermione wasn't normally one for drama, but she also took things so very seriously -- even more than he -- and had so little tolerance for anything she considered a failure in herself. It was the Gryffindor in her, that need to excel and her impatience with failure. "Keep your hair on, Granger," he told her fondly. "It's not an exam or a final match. There _are_ other chances, you know."

"I can't believe you're making fun of me!" She sounded both hurt and indignant.

"I can't believe you're getting so upset about it!" He bent so he could look her in the eye, less than a foot between their noses. "Poppet, you know I don't want any other girl -- much less a hundred." He couldn't help grinning. "Wouldn't know what to do with a hundred. Even Hercules could manage only 49 in one night and he was half god."

Her jaw dropped in offended surprise, but then she suddenly burst out laughing, as if finally seeing the humor in her own exaggerations. "You're awful."

"So you've told me." Still grinning, he picked up the flannel and rubbed it over her skin once more. "We'll try again, do a few things differently next time. It'll be fine."

"Tonight?" she sounded slightly alarmed.

"No, not tonight." He started to say tomorrow after they got back from London but didn't. If he set a specific time, she'd worry it to death and be that much more tense. This sort of thing was probably better for him to plan in advance and take her by surprise, instead of the reverse.

She was giving him a come-hither look from the corner of her eye. "You going to get in the bath with me? We'll be clean for supper."

"Do you have any idea how difficult it is for me to get in that bath? I have to lift myself over the side, then sort of . . . fall in -- _before_ I fill it. If I tried that with you and the water in there, we'd have a tsunami."

She bent forward to pull the plug. "All right. We'll start over. Let this water out and put more in. At least we won't have to worry about Madam Toad interrupting."

* * *

"Where are we going in London?" Hermione asked Mrs. Diggory the next morning over breakfast. Cedric had refused to tell her, said simply, 'It's a surprise.'

His mother shook her head, answering only, "You'll see."

This day was their vacation from study, or work in the barn. She, Cedric and Mrs. Diggory were going into the city, although Mr. Diggory had too much to do, and Mrs. Weasley had shown up with stacks of parchment. The vet (or animal healer, Hermione supposed) would be in later too.

Wherever it was they were going, Cedric and his mother had both dressed up a bit. Hermione had started to put on normal (for her) clothes until she'd seen Cedric don his blue robes, if not the fancy waistcoat he'd worn to her house for New Year's Eve. Taking her cue from him, she'd put on her school robes instead of jeans and a pullover. Now, Mrs. Diggory looked her up and down. "Don't you have normal robes?" she asked.

Hermione had glanced at Cedric, who was blushing. "Mum, those are her robes. She wasn't raised in our world."

"Oh, for heaven's sake." And Mrs. Diggory rose from the table, snagging Hermione by the sleeve and marching her into Cedric's parents' bedroom. There she dragged out an old trunk. "These may be a bit long for you, but it's time I stopped hanging onto them. They were my favorites, but I think the day is past when I can wear them and not look as if I'm pretending to be twenty instead of forty three." She pushed aside some clothes and lifted out two beautiful robes, one in crushed wine velvet and the other dark green, matching hats with them. She handed them both to Hermione. "The wine one might be a bit dressy for today," she advised.

Hermione stared down at them, then up at Cedric's mother. "Thank you," she said sincerely. It seemed a strange time for the Diggorys to be giving away clothes, and she hadn't really been that aware of age differences in robe cuts, but that only showed how much she still didn't know about her adopted world. Certainly her mother wouldn't shop at New Look.

Going back into Cedric's room, she stored the wine robes in her trunk but unfolded the green ones and put them on. They were cut tightly in the waist and bust despite the flowing drape of the outer cloak, and if they were also a bit long, she couldn't help but admire herself in Cedric's mirror. She thought she looked rather fit. The mirror agreed**: **"Very pretty."

"Thank you," she replied, putting on the hat. It had a wide brim and was decorated with a glittering fall of green and silver beads. Slytherin colors, Hermione realized belatedly, but not Slytherin robes. If green wasn't her favorite color, it still looked good on her.

She went back into the kitchen, and caught Cedric's choked laugh. "What?"

"It's a bit . . . retro, with that hat."

His mother sniffed. "She's not going to a fashion show, Cedric."

Hermione yanked the hat off. "I don't need it."

"No, put it back on," Cedric said. "People will think you're doing it on purpose. Wide-brimmed hats are coming back in, I think. Or that's what the girls in my House keep saying."

Hermione put the hat back on, struck again by what she didn't know about Wizarding clothing. There were fashion trends? It had all seemed so . . . highly individual to her. But there were fashions in the Muggle world, why not in the Wizarding World?"

It turned out they were going to Diagon Alley, and she made a point of noticing hats. Cedric was right. Most had narrower brims but she saw a few billowing wide ones on women who -- given the way they moved and the expensive cut of their clothing -- were clearly up on style.

Imagine that. For once in her life, she was_ ahead_ of the fashion curve.

Mrs. Diggory had business in Gringott's that Cedric was a bit evasive about and Hermione wouldn't embarrass him by asking. Instead, they browsed the bookstore while they waited for her and coming out, ran into Luna Lovegood, of all people. "Cedric! Hermione!" Luna called hurrying across the street to join them. "You aren't at Hogwarts studying?"

"We needed a break," Cedric told her.

"Are you taking Hermione to the gallery?"

"Ah --" Cedric appeared caught out. "It was, er, sort of a surprise for Hermione."

So that's what they'd been so secretive about.

"Oh, I'm sorry!" Luna exclaimed as Mrs. Diggory crossed the street to rejoin them. "You're going to the gallery?" Luna asked hopefully.

Mrs. Diggory's eyebrow hiked, but she smiled. "That was next on the list, yes. Would you like to come along?"

"Oh, yes, if you don't mind!" Luna had actually clapped her hands together and appeared as happy as a child at Christmas.

As they moved up the street, Mrs. Diggory in the lead, Hermione bent to whisper to Cedric, who was in the chair today, "Why is she so excited about going to the gallery?"

"Luna loves the place," he whispered back, "but there's an entrance fee so she can't go as often as she likes. If she comes with us, we go in the staff entrance and she doesn't have to pay. My mother enjoys taking her because she loves art."

"_Luna?_"

He nodded. "Her eye's not bad, either."

The things one learned, although Hermione supposed she shouldn't be so surprised. They walked down past Gringott's and even beyond Olivander's into an area of Diagon Alley Hermione hadn't seen before. These weren't stores so much as office buildings. She spotted what she supposed from the name was a law office, and another that advertized real estate, a financial advisor, and a big building that Cedric told her housed a branch of _The Daily Prophet_. But they stopped in front of a Neo-Classical building made of black marble with a copper rotunda roof. THE LONDON GALLERY OF WIZARDING ART was inscribed above the colonnaded porch. "Wow," was all she could think to say. Cedric grinned up at her.

Mrs. Diggory wasn't headed for the porch, however. She made her way down a short alley access to a side door. There, she removed her wand and tapped certain spots on the lintel, muttering an incantation beneath her breath. With a clank of inner wheels, the door unlocked and swung open. Mrs. Diggory gestured. "After you."

The building that had appeared impressive on the outside was even more so inside, with clean lines and gold-flecked black marble accented by a fine crystalline white. It reminded Hermione of Muggle art galleries, but she was surprised to see it didn't just house paintings and sculpture. "It's part art museum, part history museum," Cedric said and pointed down a long corridor to their left. "That goes to the Egyptian hall and the Assyrio-Babylonian collection. That's sort of the crown jewel of the gallery." He pointed to another corridor, "That goes to the North and South American rooms and a bit of Western Africa, but the French got there first when it came to exhibits. You have to visit Paris to see anything much worth seeing. And to Florence if you want Roman or Italian art, but we have a little Greek that came back from the Acropolis with the Elgin Marbles. That's over there." He pointed to yet a third corridor. "Along with continental Europe and Russia. You have to see the magical Fabergé Eggs. They hatch, and the surprise inside is animated. Carl Fabergé was a wizard as well as a goldsmith."

"_Really?" _Hermione was charmed, and spent the rest of the morning and all afternoon following Cedric and his mother from hall to hall. Luna had long disappeared. "She's communing with the Bast statuettes," Mrs. Diggory said with complete seriousness and Hermione wasn't sure if she should laugh or not. Cedric had turned away to conceal his grin, pointing to a display that held ancient bronze disks drilled with two small holes in the middle and silver cords drawn through.

"Used by the ancient witches of Thessaly to call down Selene, goddess of the moon. Unfortunately, the art's long lost and nobody now knows the incantation or what it did."

It wasn't until late afternoon that Hermione was finally ushered into the modern British section, and she was sure it had been saved for last. When they appeared in the antechamber, one of the staff who'd been sitting at a desk in a corner leapt to her feet and hurried over. "Lucretia!" she said, gripping Mrs. Diggory's hands. "Always such an honor. Is there anything in particular --"

"No, thank you, Margaret. I've just come to show my son's girlfriend the paintings."

The staff person, Margaret, turned to Hermione and Cedric. Upon seeing him in the chair, she let out a quiet, "Oh," but recovered quickly. "It's so good to see you again, Cedric. You're turning into quite the young man. I remember you playing hide-and-seek in the sculpture garden." Then she winced, as if realizing she'd just reminded him of more mobile times.

But Cedric was nothing if not gracious. He took her hands. "And I remember you sneaking me sweets so I'd be on a sugar high and drive my mother mad." Margaret laughed, obviously relieved, and Cedric gestured to Hermione. "This is my girlfriend, Hermione Granger."

"Miss Granger," the woman said. "So very pleased to meet you. I hope you enjoy the paintings. Lucretia is -- in my opinion -- the finest painter England's produced in 500 years."

Cedric's mother glanced around, her smile tolerantly amused. "Better than Alfred Berrisford?"

"Absolutely. Berrisford never had your control of scene shift. His transitions are clunky."

Mrs. Diggory turned away, and Hermione thought her at once flattered and dubious as she headed into the main gallery. Hermione and Cedric followed.

On permanent display, Mrs. Diggory's paintings occupied about half the hall. Hermione recognized the style even after seeing just one painting and some sketches. Lucretia combined ultra-realism with saturated, heightened color, particularly golds and greens and reds, and sharp contrasts of light and shadow. The other unifying characteristic was a fascination with myth, although what mythic tradition varied.

Oddly withdrawn now that they'd arrived, she drifted off into a corner while her son showed Hermione about. And it was only now that it fully struck HermioneCedric's mother was_ famous_. Abstractly, she'd known that, just as she knew Harry was, but here, it hung staring her in the face. "It must be peculiar," she said as they stood in front of a painting that told the story of the founding of Rome and the rape of the Sabine women, "walking into a museum and seeing your mother's name on the paintings."

He shrugged. "I sort of grew up with it."

Hermione nodded, but wondered if having a famous mother had been a contributing factor in his decision to enter the Triwizard Tournament? The better she knew him, the less explicable that act seemed. He wasn't the type to seek out eternal glory. Yet if he'd grown up constantly aware that he was the son of Lucretia Malfoy, Wizarding Britain's Master Painter, how would that affect him? "Can you draw?" she asked, realizing abruptly that she had no idea.

"Me? I can sketch, but I'm not my mother, Hermione."

"I didn't assume you were, I just wondered."

"Cedric," said a voice behind them, "is a better artist than he's leading you to believe."

He spun the chair around, glaring. "I am not. I don't have your eye."

"Of course you don't. You have your own. Heaven forbid you should draw what I do. How boring." Mrs. Diggory turned to Hermione. "I dislike it when he sells himself short. He can draw, and draw very well."

Hermione said nothing, aware she'd stumbled into an old argument and too wise to get involved. But it did make her wonder. "Show it to her," Mrs. Diggory said now, and for a moment, Hermione thought she meant for Cedric to draw something, but he seemed to understand and was wheeling away towards a central wall they hadn't yet passed. She followed.

On the wall hung a giant canvas, larger than anything she'd seen in the room. And there -- frozen -- was an epic scene of fierce battle with figures Hermione half recognized from childhood tales her father had read to her -- Thor with his Hammer, Odin with his ravens, One-handed Tyr, the Midgard Serpent and Yggdrasil the World Tree . . .

"Ragnarök," Cedric said simply, then passed his wand over the painting's surface. The canvas blanked and 'reset,' as Mrs. Diggory had explained to Hermione last autumn. What began to unfold was a tale of violent combat and titanic struggle between the Nordic gods of Asgard and the heros of Valhalla against Loki and the Frost Giants and the shamed dead of Hel. Here, the colors were still rich in golds and greens and bloody reds, but shadows hid everywhere. The precision of the art, the complexity of it, and the multitude of scenes unfolding before Hermione astonished.

Master work. _Masterpiece. _Hermione had read that this painting was Lucy Diggory's magnum opus, painted in Paris in a half-mad frenzy that had lasted over year, not long after the fall of Voldemort. (She'd done her homework on Cedric's mother.) Some had called it a work of grief after her estranged father's murder by Death Eaters, others had said she'd just painted Voldemort's downfall, but no one had really understood it even as they'd dubbed it unparalleled in recent history. Looking at it now, it suddenly struck Hermione what it was about, or at least what she thought it was about. "Your mother never believed You Know Who really died, did she? This painting . . . " She stared at a twisted, agonized figure of Odin being devoured by Fenrir the wolf. "This wasn't about his fall last time. It's about his _return_."

"I'd thought you might understand."

Hermione spun around. Lucy Diggory -- Lucretia -- stood behind her, a hand on her son's shoulder. "Does prophecy run in your family?" Hermione asked, startled. She didn't really believe in it, but--

"No. This wasn't a vision, or not of that sort." Her pale eyes moved from the painting to Hermione. "Do you know the real definition of prophecy -- the old definition? It isn't future-telling. It's the ability to read the writing on the wall -- to see what is, and discern what may come as a result. True prophecy means to give _warning_."

"So you knew then that he wasn't dead?"

"Some of us suspected it."

Hermione turned back to look at the painting. The Downfall of the Powers -- Ragnarök. The end of time and the death of the gods. And was it her imagination or did Lucretia's Odin look a bit like Dumbledore with his long, flowing white beard? Yet Odin was to _die_ at Ragnarök, wasn't he? "Do you think the second war will be that devastating? At Ragnarök, the world is destroyed and all the gods die."

"Not all of them," Mrs. Diggory said. "Some survive. The children of Odin and Thor. And Baldr will return. Lif and Lifthrasir will hide in Hodmimir's Forest and live to repopulate the earth, which will then have a time of peace."

Sure enough, the passage of panels was coming to an end and the last showed the only human survivors emerging hand-in-hand from among the trees to behold the devastation, their faces stark with horror. But the sun was rising over a field of barley in the distance. "So this isn't . . . telling who'll survive and who won't?"

"How could I know that, Hermione? I'm a painter, not a sibyl."

Yet something in the way she said it made Hermione wonder, even while she didn't believe in fortune-tellers, so how could Mrs. Diggory be one? "Could I see it again?" she asked. Cedric reached up and restarted the painting.

* * *

"I don't suppose we could stop by my parents' house, could we?" Hermione asked as they were leaving the gallery. "I wasn't sure what we were doing, so I didn't say anything about it earlier, but since we're in town . . . "

Cedric glanced up at her. In fact, he'd been looking forward to getting her home, feeding her a glass or two of wine, then trying sex again. Yet he could hardly blame her for wanting to see her parents. "I don't see why not; we can Apparate there but shouldn't we let them know first?"

"I'll call them." Hermione dug in her pocket, extracting a little coin purse that, Cedric knew, held her Muggle money. "But we need to go out to Charing Cross Road so I can find a pay phone."

Cedric looked down at himself. "In robes?"

"Cedric, it's London. Nobody looks at you twice in London, no matter how weirdly you're dressed." That made him grin; from what he'd seen, he was inclined to agree.

And so it was decided they'd drop by the Grangers on their way home, although he elected to wait in The Leaky Cauldron and have a bitter with his mother rather than follow Hermione out into the street. Besides, he had something he wanted to ask her. "Why did you never tell me you painted Ragnarök about this war, not the first one?" he asked her.

"Would you have believed me? Even your father didn't believe that the Dark Lord wasn't dead."

"You could have told me last summer after the graveyard, why wait till now?"

She took a sip and appeared thoughtful. "I was curious. I wondered whether you'd recognize it."

He leaned over the table. "Will it really be the end of things?"

"It was a metaphor, Cedric."

"You See things, mother. I know you do."

She frowned. "Then why didn't I foresee what happened to you?" She turned her face sideways. "I'm not always sure what I imagine and what I See and what I'm just good at guessing."

"How much of that painting you hung at Hogwarts is imagination, how much metaphor, and how much foretelling?"

Her smile turned secretive. "That one isn't like Ragnarök."

He sat back and finished half his bitter at once. The painting at Hogwarts wasn't acting like her other paintings. Sometimes it seemed to show virtually nothing, but his mother didn't waste canvas on empty scenes. It was poor storytelling. "It's like it records, instead of tells," he said.

Her eyes slid back to him but she didn't answer and Hermione had returned in any case. "Mum and dad are holding back dinner for us," she said, then glanced at his mother. "Would you like to come? They invited you."

His mother smiled and shook her head. "No dear, Amos will be waiting for me at home. But thank your parents for me."

In fact, Hermione's parents had 'practically begged' (Hermione's description) that she and Cedric stay overnight, so when they went out into the small yard behind The Leaky Cauldron that led to Diagon Alley, his mother Disapparated back to the house and returned a few minutes later with Cedric's overnight bag. He got out his crutches and put away the chair as the latter wasn't feasible at the Grangers, even if his lower body was achy. He didn't want Hermione to know he'd skimped on Abdoleo for a second day in an effort to avoid a repeat of Tuesday night's impotence.

They landed in the Granger's back garden and someone must have been watching because the rear door opened immediately. But Mrs Granger's face was startled and Cedric wondered if she'd ever seen anybody Apparate before. Then he realized it was Hermione's _robes_ she was staring at. "You look lovely, dear, very -- ah -- like a witch! And welcome back, Cedric. It's good to see you again."

Hermione rolled her eyes but Cedric grinned, whispering in her ear as he followed her inside. "She's trying, Granger."

Dinner was quite pleasant, the Grangers delighted to see their daughter, and they lingered at the table afterwards while they finished the wine along with spring fruit and sorbet, then After Eights. Yet in the middle of the conversation before they'd got to coffee, Cedric's right leg began to twitch and spasm. He tried rubbing it beneath the tablecloth although he knew it wouldn't help. Excusing himself, he went to the toilet. There, he lowered himself onto the seat where he got out his flask of Abdoleo and took a healthy swallow. It wouldn't matter now as he and Hermione wouldn't be sleeping in the same room tonight. Then he bent over, right leg stretched out, and rubbed at it compulsively to take his mind off the pain. After about ten minutes, he could feel the ache receding and there was a knock on the door. "Cedric? Are you all right?"

Getting to his feet, he opened it. "Fine. Although . . . I hate to be rude, but I think maybe I should go and lie down."

Frowning, she reached up to stroke his cheek. "Let me walk you up, then I'll explain to mum and dad." She shadowed him up the narrow stairs, but didn't rush him. "You've been frowning a lot today. Is it hurting more than usual?"

"A bit. You know -- days go up and down." He didn't want to tell her how bad it was -- or why. She'd probably scold him, then worry and feel guilty.

She showed him to the guest room he'd stayed in before and would've helped him get undressed but he sent her out. "Go and talk to your parents, poppet. That's why we're here. It's important for you to spend time with them." Smiling crookedly, she kissed his cheek and departed.

He got undressed, then into striped pyjama bottoms and lay down, his morning medicine and the urinal on the night table beside the bed. (The bad thing about the Grangers' house was that there was only one toilet with a shower -- on the main floor.) But as he wasn't particularly tired despite the pain medicine, he couldn't sleep. He just lay there, going over recent events in his head ranging from Umbridge now in charge at Hogwarts without the mitigating factor of Dumbledore, to screwed-up sex with Hermione, to his coming exams, to what his mother had said about the painting. How much _had_ she Seen, and how much just predicted?

It was after eleven and closing on midnight when the pain grew especially bad. He'd taken a second dose of Abdoleo but may as well have drunk water. His right leg was cramping so badly it brought tears to his eyes. He couldn't believe this was happening _here_. What would the Grangers make of this? Their daughter's boyfriend wasn't just a cripple, but had chronic pain issues?

Before long, he heard feet on the stairs then in the hallway, and started to call out to Hermione but before he could, she knocked on the door and pushed it open. "Ced? Are you still awake?"

"Yeah." He swallowed, paused a beat, then said the word he hated more than any other. "_Help_."

She was almost instantly at his side, hand stroking his forehead. "Oh, no -- you're having an attack, aren't you?"

"Yeah, poppet, I'm afraid so. I'm sorry -- bloody awful timing. I know you can't Apparate, but can you send my mum an owl? I think she has a vial of the stronger Abdoleo."

"We don't have an owl, Cedric." Then she was on her feet, face scared. "Wait. Just wait here" -- as if he could go anywhere in this state -- "I'll be right back." And she hurried out.

"Shit," he muttered, closing his eyes.

* * *

Panicked, Hermione dashed out of the guest room. How could she get hold of Cedric's mother in the middle of the night? The Diggorys had no phone and her family had no owls. When they sent her letters at Hogwarts, her mother made a special trip to the London Owl Post -- which certainly wasn't open at this hour. Nor did she have floo powder to floo from Diagon Alley . . .

"Mum, dad!" she said, pounding on their bedroom door. "I'm sorry but I need --"

The door opened and her father stood there in his ratty old dressing gown, looking concerned. "What is it?"

"Cedric -- he's having an attack."

"An attack? What sort of attack?" But her father was already moving down the hall to the guest room, pushing the door open and turning on the overhead light. "Cedric?"

"Yes, sir?"

"Do you know where you are? What day it is?"

He appeared puzzled by the questions in addition to being in serious pain. "I'm at your house and it's Thursday -- well, Friday, by now, I suppose."

Her father sat down on the edge of the bed to check Cedric's pupils "Hermione, get my bag, please." Her mother practiced general dentistry, but her father was an oral and maxillofacial surgeon, which meant he handled a bit more than teeth cleaning.

She hurried out even as her mother emerged, wrapped in a dressing gown, her father's medical bag in hand along with her mobile phone. "We'll call an ambulance."

"No, mum -- you mustn't! You can't send him to a Muggle hospital. He doesn't exist in our world."

"What do you mean -- ?"

"There _is_ no 'Cedric Diggory' in Muggle records. If we take him to hospital, it has to be to St. Mungo's." She took her father's bag and dashed back to the room, her mother following.

Her father seemed to have figured out that Cedric wasn't critical by the time she'd returned, as he'd lost his 'deeply concerned' expression, although he took his bag and removed the stethoscope he didn't often use, checking Cedric's heart and lungs just in case, then his temperature. Despite the pain, when Hermione suggested they drive him to St. Mungo's, Cedric shook his head almost violently. "No. It's the usual thing. I just need the stronger Abdoleo."

"What's 'Abdoleo'?" her mother asked.

"His pain medication. Most of the time, he's on a low dose, but when he has one of these attacks, he needs something stronger."

Her father had turned to listen. "What's causing the attack?"

"The curse," Cedric replied from the bed, making them all look around at him. Hermione had forgotten that while he might be in pain, he was perfectly lucid -- more lucid than he wanted to be, in fact. "It attacks the nerves. Most of the time, it's just an annoying ache, but if something . . . irritates it, it can make things worse. Then I need a stronger level of Abdoleo."

Her father humphed out softly. "If we were at the office, we could give you nitrous oxide, but that's not an option. I'll send Helen and Hermione in to get something else. Do you have any medical allergies?"

"I . . . dunno."

"Right. Stupid question, of course you wouldn't know. Do you have allergies of any kind? Do you know what an allergy is?"

"Yes, and no. I mean, yes, I know, and no, I don't have any. I've been pretty healthy, really -- curse aside."

"Good. Hermione, I need you to help me translate for him; I need to take a quick medical history -- be sure I don't kill him trying to stop the pain. So -- any family history of heart disease or diabetes, Cedric?"

Despite some confused queries at definitions, it took less than five minutes before her father pulled out his pad to scribble on it, tore that off and handed it over to her mother. "Go by the office and pick up this."

Her mother dressed and they drove down to the medical building that housed her parents' practices, plus an orthodontist and an orthopedic specialist. 'The Calcium Building,' her father called it. 'Bones and teeth.'

"How often does this happen?" her mother asked in the car, voice tight.

"Not much, mum," Hermione lied.

"But often enough that he seemed to know exactly what was going on."

"It only takes a few times," she pointed out, frowning at her hands. "We've got major exams this year. It's a lot of stress and Cedric takes his studies as seriously as I do. The curse is neurological, so stress sets it off."

"But why is he under stress during _holidays_?" She turned to look at Hermione.

"The tests are seven weeks away," Hermione said, not wanting to explain Umbridge and Dumbledore's flight and the D.A.. Her parents didn't even know about Voldemort.

"Hermione . . . " but her mother trailed off, sighing. "There's something you're not telling me."

"No, mum. Cedric's just really stressed out about his exams and finishing school."

"So you came home for the holidays, if he's so worried?"

"That's _why_ we came home, although we've been studying every day until today. But he was trying to avoid an attack like this. It aggravates the curse."

"I'd expect so! We didn't have him hooked up to an ECG, but the way that boy was panting, he was hurting badly." She rubbed her eyes. "We've got to get him to Brenda, see if she can figure out -- "

"Mum!"

"No, Hermione. I'll accept magic, I'll accept that you can do . . . things that make no scientific sense because it's obviously true. But that boy is suffering, and however wonderful your Wizarding World, I can't help but think we could do more for him. There has to be a _reason_ his body is reacting like that -- some measurable damage to his nervous system or spinal column. Maybe we'd see something his other doctors didn't because they're not looking in the right place or using the same equipment. Call it a second opinion. People get them all the time."

Hermione frowned, torn between her new world and her old. "I said I'd talk to him, mum. I just haven't had a chance. We've had other things on our minds."

They'd reached the office, parked, then hurried inside. Hermione waited while her mother went after whatever it was her father had asked for, but she was a bit surprised to see her emerge with a bag that contained a vial of something clear and a syringe, in addition to a few packets of drug samples. "What's that?" she asked on the way back to the car. "In the bottle?"

"It's morphine if we need it. I'm not sure your father was sure the Solpadol would work. We're flying in the dark here, Hermione. We don't know what this 'Abdoleo' really _is_ -- chemically speaking -- and you're guessing, based on apparent results."

By the time they returned, Hermione could hear Cedric crying out all the way down in the living room. Snatching the bag right out of her mother's hands, she ran up the stairs and down the hall.

Cedric was thrashing on the bed as her father held him down. "It got a lot worse very rapidly. If you two had been ten minutes more, I'd have called an ambulance and be damned. Hold him still."

Her mother had hurried in too, and helped Hermione hold him while her father bypassed the pills altogether and went straight for the morphine. "We'll get the pain under control, then see if the Solpadol can maintain it."

Cedric was strong and Hermione practically had to lie on him while her mother held his arm for her father to make the injection. With his heart pumping so, it didn't take long before the morphine took effect and his lids drooped. He wasn't completely out, but he wasn't really aware either.

Her father was breathing heavily and looked at her. "We need to get hold of his parents. Now."

"I'll go to Grimmauld Place."

"Hermione, that's not in the best part of town."

"Mum, I can take care of myself. I don't have time to argue."

With a last glance at Cedric -- calm now but soaking wet from sweat -- she ran out the door, pulling her robes more closely around her and grabbing change for the train from the stash over the fireplace. It didn't take long to get to Sirius', but it was now past midnight and Sirius hadn't known she was coming. She had to ring the doorbell and winced at the howling of Mrs. Black. Within minutes, she heard the locks drawn back and the door opened. Sirius's mouth opened at the sight of her. "Hermione? What are you doing here? Is Harry all right?"

"Harry's fine. Well, I assume he is. He's at Hogwarts." She pushed past him inside, speaking loudly over his mother's screaming. "Cedric, however, is not fine. He had a bad attack and we're at my parents'. We've sort of got it under control, but I need to contact his mum and dad."

Sirius was frowning in concern. "You can use my fireplace."

She followed him down the hall to the kitchen. "This is an enormous help," she said. "I didn't have any floo powder and can't Apparate. We don't have an owl at home and Cedric's family doesn't have a phone. I didn't know what to do."

They'd reached the kitchen and he fetched the floo powder from the mantel. "Have you talked by floo before?"

She winced. "Er, no."

"Then let me do it, make sure there's no problem." But Hermione thought he just wanted to be involved, so she watched as he got down on hands and knees by the hearth, kindled the fire, tossed in floo powder, then stuck his head into green flames. As if at a distance, she could hear him roaring, "LUCRETIA! AMOS! THERE'S AN EMERGENCY!"

It took a few more yells, then he seemed to be talking normally, and after a moment, pulled his head out of the fire. "They'll be here in a few minutes."

And indeed, a few minutes later, the doorbell rang again, causing Mrs. Black to start screeching once more. When Sirius opened the door, a white-faced Mrs. Diggory hurried in, followed by her husband. Turning her head towards the painting, she yanked out her wand and shouted, "_STUPIFY_, you old bat!" The painting went silent in mid-yell, Mrs. Black's eyes bugging out as if she were being choked. "Take us to him," Mrs. Diggory said.

Sirius gestured to Hermione, who hurried forward. She gave Sirius a crushing hug and whispered, "Thank you so much. I don't know what I'd have done without you."

Then she led the Diggorys out and down the road to the Underground, giving them exact change each. "I'll show you where to put it. Have you ever been on the Underground?"

"Once," Mrs. Diggory said, but her husband just shook his head. Between their worry and their unfamiliarity, Hermione had to lead them through practically by hand.

Getting off at the station near her house, it was a five-minute walk back that they made in under four. The door opened before they'd even set foot in the front garden. "You're Cedric's parents?" her mother asked. "He's upstairs. We've got him sedated so he's not in pain."

Mrs Diggory took Hermione's mother's hands. "Thank you," she said sincerely. Then hurried for the stairs, Mr. Diggory behind her.

Her mother put an arm around her. "He'll be all right," she said.

"I know he will. It's not the first time -- just scary and inconvenient. We weren't prepared."

"He should keep some of his stronger pain medicine with him at all times," her mother said, "the same as somebody with severe allergies has epinephrine ready in case of anaphylactic shock." Her mother looked at her and squeezed her forearm. "Go on upstairs; I know that's where you want to be. I'll make some tea."

With the crisis past, Cedric was as well as could be expected, although it was agreed he shouldn't be moved until the worst of the episode was over. Hermione's parents and his had tea around the kitchen table in the early hours of the morning, and it was, Hermione thought, a strange way for them to meet -- but perhaps advantageous. A cup of tea was a cup of tea, whether brewed by magic or the stove, and parents understood worried parents. Gratitude on the part of Cedric's together with sympathy on the part of hers worked to overcome any gap between worlds, and by the time Mr. Diggory left, he shook her father's hand warmly, his eyes a bit wet. "Thanks for helping my boy, Charles."

"You'd have done the same for Hermione."

"Of course we would." Then he turned to his wife. "Lucy, love, I'll be back at noon -- see how he is." She nodded and they embraced. It was, Hermione thought, the first time she'd ever seen them do so, but it wasn't awkward or insincere. Mrs. Diggory clung to her husband for a moment and he to her. Then he went out into the back garden to Disapparate.

Cedric wasn't ready to go home until Saturday morning, although he was well enough by Friday evening to come downstairs for dinner. His mother had stayed the whole time, and Hermione's mother asked her while they were making dinner in the kitchen, "Is his mother noble born? I thought he had a touch of upper-class manners when he was here before, but I see she's really got them. I feel like I'm entertaining a lady."

Hermione tilted her head. "The Wizarding World doesn't really have nobility like we do, but yeah, I think it's probably fair to say she was noble born." Her mother nodded.

Hermione and Cedric returned to Devon on their last day of vacation, and between the attack and their imminent return, Cedric's mood was very dark. They spent their last night wrapped around each other. He wasn't up for sex (quite literally) and apologized until she shut him up with fervent kisses. "It doesn't _matter_. It'll happen when it happens, Cedric. Like you told me, there are other chances."

* * *

**  
Notes:** It's been a long time since I read _The Prose Edda_., but I did look things up. As for whether the last/first humans hide in Yggdrasil itself (the world tree) or just in Hodmimir's Forest, versions vary. In ancient Greece, Thessalian witches were (in)famous and they did indeed use spinning disks like that described to 'draw down the moon.' We have absolutely no real idea what this was about. Thanks to Kayla and Brittany for help on dentist (and medical) things. Regarding Grimmauld Place, unplottable locations, and the floo network ... I think the books contradict themselves. Perhaps one can only floo out of an unplottable locale, but if so, how does Harry speak to Kreacher from Umbridge's fireplace? It seems to be internally inconsistent.


	30. Esiban

By the end of the Easter break, the mood of the seventh years had changed -- or rather, had shifted horizons. A few still clung to school topics in conversation, but Cedric heard far more discussing job opportunities and life beyond Hogwarts. Two couples announced engagements, five formally broke up or looked as though they were headed there, and if the fifth years were getting career advice, seventh years were signing up for job interviews to be held the Sunday before break ended.

Hogwarts was, of course, the chief source of a young, trained labor pool, but the Wizarding economy was in no better shape than the larger British economy. And if the Ministry and other businesses with job openings came to Hogwarts for interviews, there were still more potential employees than there were positions for them. Inter-House rivalry soared and real-world tension mounted, and Cedric noticed that their new Head -- unlike the old one -- had no qualms about playing favorites, helping to secure interviews for her favored students. The result was that other teachers stepped forward to aid their own respective Houses or favored students. It made, Cedric thought, for a rather nasty atmosphere all around.

"It wouldn't be like this," he said to Peter, Ed and Scott at dinner that Sunday night, "if Dumbledore was still here."

"Well he's not," Ed replied. "He went and got himself on the Most Wanted list." Ed had been especially tense and short-tempered as his post-school prospects were bleak. He'd never been a good student, and didn't come from a very well-to-do family. Neither did Scott, but unlike Ed, Scott had good marks and was able to secure several interviews, including one with the Auror college. It was Scott, in fact, who related to the rest of them one of the juiciest titbits of gossip from Interview Day.

"You should have heard Rufus Scrimgeour lay into Umbridge," he told them all at dinner. "I think I was the last interviewee, and he was positively frothing at the mouth by the time he was done with me. As I was going out of Umbridge's office, which he was using for the interviews, she was there waiting to get back in, and he just -- " Scott's eyes grew momentarily large and he shook his head. "Took her head right off, practically. Right in front of me too, so he obviously didn't care if it got out to the students. Called her an incompetent old cow and said he'd interviewed only two candidates of seven who might -- he said _might_ -- be qualified to go on for Auror training right when Aurors are most needed. He said barely a single seventh year would pass his NEWTs in Dark Arts. We're not ready for the test, can't do the spells -- "

"What'd she say?" Peter asked. The four of them were leaning tightly together over the table.

"She told him he'd better watch himself, his position wasn't unassailable. Funny thing is, he sort of _sneered_ at her and said hers wasn't either and she was riding on Fudge's coattails. It started getting really nasty when Umbridge remembered I was standing there and made me leave."

"Didn't you hang around out of earshot?" Cedric asked.

Scott shook his head. "I didn't think I'd better, not in this case. If they'd caught me . . . " Scott trailed off. "Well, I want to be one of those two, me." Aurors might have a dangerous job, but it paid accordingly. "I'd be the first in my family ever to go on for more training after Hogwarts, you know." He shrugged.

Cedric couldn't blame him for looking after his own interests. Scott was the youngest of four boys and Cedric thought his parents had been plain exhausted by the time he'd come along. He'd got away with murder as a child, but he'd also survived benign neglect and lived with hand-me-downs all his life. Almost from the day they'd walked through the Hogwarts doors, Scott had been on his own. It had made him a bit wild, but also the most canny and driven of the four of them. Cedric often thought that, if Scott had been of age, it would have been his name, not Cedric's, that came out of the Goblet. He'd certainly tried to get his name _in_ it, age line or no.

"How'd the test for the Transfiguration College go?" Peter asked Cedric now.

"Haven't had it yet. It got rescheduled for after dinner. Apparently, the fellow didn't get here till late." And that was why his plate was still more full than empty. He was having trouble with his appetite.

"You'll be brilliant," Peter told him.

"Dunno about that. I'm just hoping I don't look like a total incompetent, in case I want to try again later."

"You're the best in our year by miles."

"Most people who apply for these openings have been out _working_ for a couple years first. They're not taking a class a few times a week. They're doing transfigurations all day, every day. They've got ten times my experience."

"But not necessarily ten times your talent," Scott pointed out. "You Transfigure things most of us can't begin to manage, mate -- and it stays Transfigured."

And that was why Cedric was taking the exam in the first place -- he could perform permanent and living-creature Transfigurations and would be testing for his Advanced Transfiguration license along with his Transfiguration NEWT.

Professor McGonagall passed behind him at his table and leaned over his shoulder to say, "We'll be ready for you after dinner, Mr. Diggory. Please come directly to my office when you're ready, but don't keep Mr. Sweeney waiting too long."

"I won't, professor."

"Good boy." She patted his shoulder and offered a tight smile. He thought she might be almost as nervous as he was. Even if she were friends with the head of the college, she'd stuck out her neck on this to claim she had a student ready to go on directly from school.

He didn't finish much more of his meal before giving up and rising from the table, getting pats and well-wishes from his friends and other Hufflepuffs, and even a few Gryffindors, as he made his way out of the hall on his crutches.

Seeing him rise to leave, Hermione rose as well and met him at the rear doors. Most students who'd departed for the holidays had come back on the train that afternoon, so when Hermione pulled down his head to kiss him soundly -- in front of everyone -- they had quite an audience. It earned laughter and claps and even a few cheers. "For luck," she told him. "You'll be brilliant." And she scurried back to her table.

He was bright red as he exited, but also encouraged. It was funny how much difference one small gesture could make.

McGonagall's office door was open by the time he reached it and inside, she was laughing with a middle-aged man. Cedric didn't think he'd heard her laugh since Dumbledore had left (not that she ever laughed much). Hearing the thud-scrape of his approach -- his gait was rather distinctive -- she appeared in the doorway and smiled at him, rather more fully than she had at dinner. "Come in, Mr. Diggory." And she gestured. He preceded her into the room.

Paolo Sweeney had an Italian's olive complexion and black hair that was now mostly gray. He was, Cedric judged, about Professor McGonagall's age. "_Buona sera, signor Diggory. Mi chiamo Paolo Sweeney. Avanti, si accomodi. Lo sai l'italiano, no?_"

Taken aback, Cedric blinked. "_Lo conosco un poco. Piacere di fare la Sua conoscenza._"

Sweeney grinned and held out a beefy hand. "Not bad, Mr. Diggory." His English was accentless. "My mother's Neapolitan. I was told you were born in Florence."

"I was, but only lived there till I was four. Most of my Italian I've picked up on holiday or from my mother."

"Quite a talent, she has. And from what Minerva tells me, you inherited some of it."

"Not for drawing, sir."

"It's not your artwork I'm interested in," Sweeney said, grinning. "Please, have a seat." And he gestured to one of three chairs. Sweeney took a brief history from him, asking him about his classes while looking over a copy of his mark sheet that McGonagall had supplied. Despite three chairs, she stood by her door, watching silently, hands clasped in front of her. "These marks are outstanding," Sweeney said at one point, "in virtually everything but Defense Against the Dark Arts. Those are just a little above abysmal this year -- but everything in that class before matches the rest. Can you explain the discrepancy?"

Cedric glanced up at Professor McGonagall, but she said nothing. He was on his own, which he supposed was fair. He wouldn't have teachers coming to his rescue in two months. "The current professor and I, er, have a bit of a disagreement, sir." Sweeney watched him with an expression that was neither encouraging nor discouraging. "Professor Umbridge believes that students can study theory without practical application. We haven't cast a single spell all year."

Both Sweeney's eyebrows climbed. "So what's Professor Umbridge testing you on?"

"Essays, sir."

Sweeney turned to another stack of parchment that Cedric recognized to have his handwriting -- apparently essays he'd turned in at one point or another. Sweeney read through a few paragraphs of one, then a second, then a third. "Minerva, do we have one of those essays? I'm not seeing anything in here from Dark Arts."

"Professor Umbridge refused to supply one, Paolo."

Sweeney snapped down the parchment he was examining to look at Minerva. "I see." He took a quill from the desk, dipped it, and drew a heavy black line through the marks for Defense Against the Dark Arts on Cedric's mark sheet. "Useless then. Mr. Diggory, let's begin there. While the college focuses on Transfigurations and Charms, there may be instances when it's imperative for you to know basic shielding or similar. Nothing much above OWL level, nonetheless . . . "

He stood and pulled his wand. "If you would?" Cedric rose as well and drew his own wand, balancing on one crutch. Almost before he was ready, Sweeney aimed and said, "_Expelliarm--_"

"_PROTEGO!_"

Maybe it was nerves, but his Shield Charm came out so strong it reverberated on Sweeney and nearly knocked the man over. "Well!" Sweeney said, almost laughing. "And she's giving you Ps in Dark Arts?"

"Mr. Diggory needed to learn the Shield Charm for the Triwizard Tournament last year," McGonagall explained, lips curved just slightly.

"No doubt. I'm almost afraid to ask him to try disarming me. My wand might end up in the wall."

Embarrassed and still very nervous, Cedric blushed to the roots of his hair.

"Let's see what else you can do, Mr. Diggory." Sweeney picked up a raw chunk of copper from among the items laid out on McGonagall's desk. "A goodly portion of our graduates go on to work in permanent transfigurations for various companies, so this is an easy place to start with just a form change, not substance. Let's see you turn this into a cauldron, mid-sized please, curved lip, and make it permanent."

Nodding, Cedric took a breath and aimed his wand, concentrating with a frown. The copper ore bubbled, curved and formed itself into the requested cauldron. "Excellent," Sweeney said, moving the new cauldron off the desk and replacing it with a bunch of crudely sketched parchment flowers set in a soup can. "Now let's do a substance change, inanimate to animate, please. Give me some nice red tulips."

Cedric Transfigured the parchment into bright, double tulips in a blue glass vase. "Lovely." Sweeney picked them up and handed them to McGonagall. "A lady always deserves flowers on her desk, don't you think, Mr. Diggory?"

McGonagall actually blushed but accepted the tulips.

And so it went. Sweeney had quite an array of practical tests, and if Cedric wasn't successful at all of them, he also wasn't completely useless at anything. Sweeney gave no indication as to whether that was a good show, or merely average. At the very end, he brought forward a broom that he'd leaned against the wall and handed Cedric a bit of parchment with a somewhat complicated, multi-part spell inscribed on it. "The charms for a flying broom. Let's see if you can do it. Five minutes to study it."

Cedric had never seen these spells before and raised his eyebrows. It wasn't the first new spell Sweeney had asked him to sight-read in the past hour, but it was the most complicated. Cedric read over the spells several times, struggling to get the accents and hand motion. When his five minutes were up, Sweeney clapped once and pointed to the broom.

It began well. The basic Levitation Charm was almost insultingly easy, but it was combined with a Clasping Spell similar to the one on his braces, designed to keep a rider in place. After that, he had to add directional charms, a warming spell to offset the cold temperatures at higher altitudes, an air-bubble Charm similar to the one he'd mastered for the Lake Task to allow a rider to breathe easily, and a Shield Charm to protect the rider from higher speeds. Last was the Velocity Spell. He must have done something wrong there, however, as the broom performed a strange convulsion, then shot around the room, pinging off walls and bookshelves like a ball while he, McGonagall and Sweeney all dove for cover. Then it crashed out of McGonagall's window with a loud splinter of glass. "Shit," Cedric muttered under his breath as he lay on the carpet. He couldn't have failed his entrance exam more spectacularly if he'd tried.

Sweeney's laughter made him look up. The man was climbing to his feet, shaking with mirth as he casually repaired McGonagall's office with a few flicks of his wand -- almost as impressive as Dumbledore. McGonagall's expression was white. "Well," she said, then again, "Well."

"If he ever masters that last part, he might be able to turn out racing brooms," Sweeney replied, almost off-hand.

McGonagall was frowning severely, but not at Cedric. She had one hand fisted on her hip and the other was straightening her hat. "You did that on purpose, Paolo."

Sweeney didn't reply, just winked at her, and McGonagall's lips twitched, her stern face breaking for just a moment. Cedric thought he might have caught an echo of McGonagall as a girl, serious and straight-laced like Hermione, but not above being teased out of it by a man she fancied. _Had_ she fancied Sweeney once upon a time? Cedric wondered what she'd looked like back then, if she'd been pretty with her high cheekbones, hair still auburn, and blue eyes that hadn't faded yet.

And that was a _very_ strange thought indeed to have about Professor McGonagall, but it made him wonder what Hermione would look like at that age. And would he still be able to tease a smile out of her?

Sweeney turned his attention back to Cedric. "That was a bit unfair," he admitted, "but I wanted to see how you did. The last thing I'd like to test, however, I think we'll have to go outside for -- your Animagus Transformation."

Cedric had more or less anticipated that, and nodded. "Actually, we don't have to go outside. If the professor can open the window, I can show you here." He'd been practicing this all week.

Sweeney's dark eyebrows had gone up and he turned to McGonagall, who appeared equally surprised but perhaps just a little pleased. "If you feel able to do it here," she said. He nodded, and she went to the window -- the one he'd just broken (and Sweeney had repaired) and threw it wide. Turning to him, she gestured.

Now that it was upon him, he hoped he didn't make a complete fool of himself and moved towards the window, Sweeney and McGonagall following. Unlike Dumbledore's office, this room was too small for him to transfigure inside it -- his extended wings would hit the walls covered in books -- so he seated himself on the ledge and looked out and down. He had about five stories -- plenty of space. Rolling out backwards, his body shifted even as he twisted and the pull of the wind on his robes turned to the slide of it over his feathers. He dipped close to the ground, then soared straight up into the twilight, turned and came back by the window to dip a wing at the figures of Sweeney and McGonagall looking out over the ledge. Spiraling down, he settled on the ground below them, back in his usual form, and waved.

They met him as he entered the front doors, and Sweeney shook his hand, thanking him for the interview, then nodded to McGonagall. "We'll be in touch," he told Cedric, tossing his cloak around his shoulders as he headed out the doors.

Well, that had been singularly uninformative. Cedric had no idea how he'd done, but McGonagall didn't look disappointed. "Do you think I'll get in?" he asked her.

"I can't say. Although I believe you have a chance. Remember, the college is highly competitive. I'm not sure how many students Paolo will take this next year, but I don't believe they've ever taken more than five."

"Do you know how many have applied?"

"No, I'm afraid I don't." She patted his arm. "But even if you don't make it this year, I think you did well enough to be granted another interview in a year or two. It's not at all uncommon for applicants to be turned away the first time, and sometimes even a second." She smiled up at him, and it was -- for McGonagall -- rather friendly. "The fact he agreed to interview you at all, and didn't walk out halfway through, is an achievement on its own -- and not as a consolation prize."

Cedric nodded and headed for the lift that would take him to the library where Hermione would be waiting to hear how he'd done.

* * *

Hermione's career advice appointment with McGonagall was scheduled first thing on Monday morning. The professor offered her coffee and crumpets, then they got right down to business. "So what do you think you might like to do after school, Miss Granger? Given your marks, there's very little for which you couldn't reasonably apply."

Shifting a bit nervously, Hermione looked down at her hands which held a steaming cup. Although she hadn't said anything to Harry or Ron -- or even to Cedric -- Hermione knew precisely what she wanted to do after school. She just wasn't sure she was prepared to announce it yet. "Well, professor, I've not quite made up my mind. I mean, things could change in the next two years, couldn't they? They did for Cedric."

McGonagall frowned. "Miss Granger, you mustn't pick a future career based on what you think Mr. Diggory might choose to do. A clever girl like you . . . you shouldn't settle for following around a boy, however kind or handsome he may be."

Hermione couldn't help grinning. McGonagall sounded like her own mother -- who had, in the end, let her career take a backseat to her husband's, and perhaps that's why she'd been so insistent about the matter with Hermione. "I didn't mean that, professor. I just meant that until this year, Cedric wanted to work for the Ministry. Now . . . well, that's not really an option for him at the moment. I'd like to keep my options open."

As if relieved, McGonagall nodded. "A wise decision, Miss Granger. Nonetheless, you won't be able to continue at NEWT level with all the classes you've taken for OWLs. You'll need to drop a few, but which depends on the type of career that might interest you."

"Actually, I've some thoughts on that. Care of Magical Creatures probably isn't something I need to continue, and quite honestly, neither is Herbology. I've already dropped Muggle Studies and Divination, so that leaves only eight."

"Eight is still too many, Miss Granger." McGonagall looked over the top of her square spectacles. "You're an extremely bright girl -- but I'm being honest here. If you overload your schedule, you won't be adequately prepared to do well on your NEWTs. May I suggest removing History of Magic?"

Hermione shook her head quickly. "No, please, professor -- I'm aware Professor Binns isn't the best of teachers, but, well, I'd like to continue with it so I can take the NEWT. I can do additional reading on the side. That's what Cedric does. Dropping Astronomy might be better."

McGonagall inclined her head. "All right then. That leaves you with seven classes for your sixth year schedule. I fear you may still find that too many, but we can discuss it again at the end of sixth year." She looked at Hermione over the top of her glasses once more. "While I understand that, as a Muggle-born, you might feel the need to continue with History of Magic, I'm really not certain that's the case. As you noted yourself, information can be found in a book." McGonagall's lips quirked up. "And we both know you have no aversion to reading."

"I know, professor," Hermione said quietly, "but I really would like to take the NEWT in that subject."

McGonagall frowned slightly. "There are few careers that require a NEWT in History of Magic, Miss Granger, and almost all of them involve work at the Ministry, teaching, law, or archiving. Are you quite certain you don't have a particular career in mind?"

Unable to quite meet McGonagall's eyes, Hermione twisted her fingers together in her lap and wondered if she dared admit what she wanted to do? So far, all the Wizarding-born who she'd talked to -- except Dumbledore -- had scoffed at her ideas. "Well, I was, er, thinking about the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures -- Being Division." McGonagall didn't reply, but she also didn't laugh. "I'd like to work with house-elves, and I believe that office does require a NEWT of A or above in History of Magic, as it, well, pertains. It doesn't require one in Care of Magical Creatures unless you're interested in the Beast Division -- and I'm not."

McGonagall still wasn't laughing. She just nodded, as if somehow unsurprised. "Then yes, by all means, you should continue with the class. If you need to drop one, I suggest perhaps Arithmancy as its difficulty level is high while its pertinence to your career path is rather low."

Hermione nodded. "Yes, professor. I enjoy it, however."

Scribbling a few notes on the parchment in front of her, McGonagall replied. "Very well, then, I've entered your class requests for next year. You may go, Miss Granger."

Later at lunch, Cedric asked, "So how was the meeting?" as he passed her the pitcher of pumpkin juice.

"It went well."

"What classes are you taking next year?"

"Seven. Transfigurations, Charms --"

Cedric nearly sprayed juice out of his nose. "Seven! Are you trying to _kill_ yourself?"

She glared. "You're taking six, plus that extra Potions class with Professor Snape."

"And you've seen how insane I've been as NEWTs approach, but I'm not taking a NEWT in Potions. Snape said we're done, in fact. He doesn't need to see me at all for summer term."

Hermione frowned. First, Harry, now Cedric. She didn't approve of how Snape appeared to be throwing off responsibilities without Dumbledore there to watch him. "But he's supposed to --"

"I can make my own Abdoleo, Granger," Cedric interrupted. "And he said I'm as close as I'll ever get to the Restituo. I reckon he thinks it just beyond me."

Still frowning, Hermione shook her head. "Maybe. But still. Dumbledore told him to teach you. He dropped Harry too, now that Dumbledore is gone."

Cedric did a double-take, then spoke softly, "He stopped Harry's lessons? But Harry's can't be anywhere _near_ that proficient yet. Occlumency is hard, and he only started after Christmas."

Lips pursed, Hermione replied equally softly, "Well, that's what Harry told me. He's not seeing Snape any more."

"I'll talk to him and see what I can find out."

"Maybe you should talk to him about what he's planning for this afternoon too, while you're at it."

Cedric leaned even closer. "What's he planning?"

"He wants to talk to Snuffles but can only get away with it in Umbridge's fireplace -- it's the only one on the floo network not being guarded -- so Fred and George have something up their sleeves to distract Umbridge for a bit. I spent most of last night trying to talk him out of it."

"Why does he want to talk to Snuffles?"

"I have no idea!" She threw up her hands. "He won't say." She turned and looked at him. "Talk some sense into him, Ced. He respects you."

* * *

Cedric caught Harry on his way out of the Great Hall after lunch. "Can I have a word?"

Harry eyed him with suspicion but followed Cedric through the prefects' lounge into his office. "I've got Potions, and Snape -- "

"I'll give you a note if you're late." Cedric sat down in the rolling chair behind his desk and waved the door shut. "What's so bloody important that you're risking everything to talk to Sirius for ten minutes? Are the dreams back? Hermione told me you dropped Occlumency."

Harry's mouth fell open. "I didn't tell her I dropped! I said Snape told me not -- well, that I didn't have to come back. And I just need to talk to him -- Sirius." The boy's expression was sullen.

"Harry, I know enough about Occlumency to know you couldn't master it in two months."

"It was more than two months -- "

"Not by much. And you sidestepped what I just said; if Dumbledore thought it important enough -- "

"If Dumbledore thought it important enough he could bloody well tell me HIMSELF!" Harry shouted, crossing his arms and turning his head to the side. "But all I am to him is this damn scar on my forehead."

"Look, you can pout and throw a tantrum if it makes you feel better, but I want some answers. Why did you stop the Occlumency, and why do you have to talk to Sirius?"

Harry continued to glare but Cedric didn't back down. The rest were too sympathetic to Harry at times, feeling guilty for not having suffered what he had. Normally, Cedric avoided confrontation, but all his instincts were screaming at him to keep pushing this time, and the staring contest lasted a full minute before Harry finally looked away -- but didn't drop his eyes. "I can't tell you. But I can promise it doesn't have to do with Voldemort. It's . . . personal."

"You're risking expulsion for a personal issue at a time like this?"

"Well you did to prance around in the prefects' bath with Hermione!"

Jaw hard, Cedric said, "Yes -- and it was stupid. We haven't done anything like it since. Not to mention if you'd said something to Dumbledore last year about Moaning Myrtle spying on prefects, we wouldn't have been caught at all."

"So you're going to blame me for it? Maybe you shouldn't be doing something like that in the first place! Taking advantage of her because she dotes on you -- "

Cedric slapped his hands down on the desktop to push himself to his feet, using the desk for leverage. "Do _not_ accuse me of taking advantage of Hermione. I'd cut my own throat before I let any harm come to her. It's one thing for you to speak for her like a brother. It's another to insult me when I gave you my word that I'd treat her well."

"That was before you were sneaking off to take a bath with her and do God knows what else!"

"So what? I'm not good enough for her? You don't want her stuck with a cripple?"

Harry appeared genuinely taken aback. "I didn't say that -- didn't even think it. But, well, she's never had a boyfriend besides Krum. And he didn't do those things. He was a gentleman!"

Cedric dropped back into his chair. "Krum wasn't in love with her. I'm not taking advantage of her, Harry. She has me wrapped around her little finger." He paused. "Now tell me why you need to talk to Sirius?"

Harry appeared somewhat mollified, but shook his head. "I can't. I mean, well . . . it's not that I'm hiding anything. It's just not mine to tell. I promised." He paused and looked off. "But I need to talk to somebody, and I can talk to Sirius because he was there, so I'm not breaking any promises."

Puzzled, Cedric sat back a little in his chair and chewed the knuckle of his forefinger. "Can you tell me . . . sideways? Not the details? I'm not trying to be nosey, I just . . . this is a great risk. I suppose I need to know why you're making it."

Harry's smile was wry. "It's funny -- Ginny, the twins, even Ron . . . none of them pressed. They just agreed to help me. And Hermione just argued I shouldn't do it. You want to know why."

"I'm annoying that way."

"Have you ever found out something about your parents that, well, made you wonder if you could respect them?"

Cedric's eyebrows went up. "My father embarrasses me on a regular basis. Remember before the World Cup last year? Does that count?"

"Um, this is a bit more serious, but . . . sort of the same. How do you deal with that?" Harry leaned forward slightly. "Do you ever . . . I mean, are you ever sorry to be his son?"

Cedric tilted his head. "No, not sorry. I apologize a lot, but I'm not sorry. He means well, and he loves me. He gave up his _job_ to support me." That brought a frown. "I asked him about it over break -- said I was angry at him. He told me he wouldn't even discuss it. If the Ministry attacked me, he couldn't -- in good conscience -- continue working for them." Cedric decided to take a bit of a shot in the dark. "Sometimes he drives me insane, but, well, he's human. That's the hard part, with your parents. When you're little, you think they know everything, can do everything -- then you find out they don't and they can't. It's quite a let-down. It took me a while to forgive him for being so bombastic. When I was about 14 or 15, I really _was_ embarrassed to be his son. I didn't like him much."

His wild shot must have hit something, as Harry sighed and said, "I used to think I knew what my dad was like, but, er, I can't say how, but well, I found out something he did in his fifth year -- something really _mean_. He was a bully, like my cousin. I _hate_ my cousin. How could I . . . how could he . . . how could he have been _mean_ like that?"

Cedric didn't reply immediately. "People change when they get older. I'm definitely not the same person I was when I was in my fifth year, Harry."

Harry smiled. "You're not so different."

"Yes, I am. And not just for being older. Events change you. Whatever your father did, maybe he . . . came to regret it? I've done things I'm not proud of. Haven't you?"

Slowly, Harry nodded, then added, "That's why I need to talk to Sirius. He was there. And he knew him later. I have to know, Cedric. I have to know why he did it. And if he did regret it."

Cedric met his eyes, then nodded. Some things sons needed to know about fathers. "All right. I won't stop you."

Cedric was, in fact, nowhere near either the heart of Fred and George's disturbance or Umbridge's office later that afternoon. But he was present in the Entrance Hall to witness the twins' spectacular departure on their brooms. It was, Cedric thought, the stuff of school legend, and as much as they annoyed him at times, he found himself grinning as he watched them soar off on their Cleansweeps through the open front doors.

The days that followed were an insane chaos of high jinks, rebelling students, and an increasingly furious Umbridge. "They're going to drive her to do something desperate," Cedric muttered to Hermione at one point. But amazingly, no students were expelled because Umbridge couldn't seem to catch anyone red-handed. On Wednesday night after Report, she confronted Cedric and Violet, demanding names, only to be told neither of them had any idea who'd let the niffler into her office, left dungbombs in the west tower, or filled her supper pie with flobberworms.

"I can't believe _neither_ of you knows anything!" she practically screeched, eying especially Cedric. "You're as much a part of this conspiracy as the other teachers!"

"We aren't," Cedric replied quietly as Violet nodded agreement.

"I don't believe it!" She swung on Cedric. "You're behind this. I know you are."

"I'm not -- !"

"Don't bother denying it! The degree of coordination behind these _attacks_ shows a single, vicious mind!"

And that was, Cedric supposed, a backhanded compliment, but if there was a single mind behind them (vicious or otherwise), it wasn't his. Huffing out, eyes a little wild, Umbridge finished, "This defiance has gone on long enough. I'll be putting a halt to it. The students do not run this school."

On Thursday, as Cedric headed back to his rooms after dinner, he paused before he reached the door. "Someone's been in here," he said to Peter and Hermione, who were with him.

"How do you know?" Hermione asked.

"The wards are disturbed."

"You put _wards_ on your door, mate?"

Cedric just shared a glance with Hermione. "Yeah, I, er, sort of suspected that someone might have reason to break in."

Peter appeared confused by this. "Why?"

Still holding Hermione's gaze, Cedric said, "Well, the night of the bath thing . . . Umbridge was nosing around my room like she was looking for something -- I doubt it was anything in particular, just something to use against me. So I started setting wards."

Hermione had hurried into his room, looking about to see if anything had been disturbed, and Peter followed. When Peter had gone through into his bedroom, Cedric pulled his black journal out of his robes and made a "Psst!" sound to Hermione, holding it up so she could see. She breathed out in relief. "I said I'd keep -- "

"Cedric!"

He and Hermione both looked towards his bedroom even as Peter emerged, carrying Esiban's cage.

It was open. And empty.

"Esiban!" Cedric called automatically, on instinct. But he knew the raccoon couldn't have got out. Cedric always spelled the cage closed. "Esiban!"

There was no answer. Hermione appeared confused although Peter looked seriously worried. "Ced, mate, you -- "

"It was Locked!" Cedric snapped, turning to exit into the hallway. "Esiban!" It was almost too much to hope the raccoon was still within shouting distance.

Hermione followed him along with Peter, who said, "I'll alert the Sett."

Cedric just nodded, watching him dash off. "This has happened before?" Hermione asked.

"When I first brought him, yes -- my second year, and sometimes in the third, until I perfected that Locking spell."

"But Cedric, he's been out around the castle with you before -- and not on a lead."

"You've got a dog, Granger; think about it. Chilli's well-behaved if you're watching her, but what if she gets out on her own with a beagle's nose? Esiban's the same. There's a _reason_ I Lock his cage during the day. He's a _raccoon_."

"So did you forget -- ?"

"_No! _Somebody broke into my room. I told you -- the wards were disturbed." He bowed his head. "What do they want with him?"

She slipped arms around his waist, hugging him tightly. "We'll find him. I'll go rouse Gryffindor."

* * *

Despite two Houses searching and a few from Ravenclaw besides, Esiban didn't turn up on Thursday evening. By bedtime, Cedric was distraught and trying to hide it. Hermione hugged him tightly, stroking his back. "We'll find him," she promised.

"He's never been lost this long. Somebody must have him."

"Cedric, he probably stole into the kitchen, gorged himself and curled up for a nap. Harry even has Dobby looking for him."

But Hermione's words were meant to comfort rather than to express what she really thought. She was very worried. She'd talked to various members of Hufflepuff during the search, and they all confirmed what Cedric had said -- Esiban had never been missing more than a few hours. The raccoon usually made the most of his freedom to steal food, then skittered back to Cedric before long. "He must be lost," Susan Bones whispered to Hermione as they slunk through a hall in the dungeon. "He adores Ced. He'd never run away from him."

Hermione didn't reply, keeping her fears to herself. There were too many dangers in the castle for small creatures, and if raccoons, like cats, seemed to have nine lives -- and Esiban was more than a bit magic after spending six years with Cedric -- he could still be caught unaware.

The next morning, Neville came hurrying back into the Gryffindor common room all out of breath. "Esiban's been found," he blurted, and Hermione knew from the expression on his face that it wasn't good news. "They have him in the Great Hall."

Hermione grabbed for Harry and Ron, who hurried with her downstairs. The hall was in an uproar by the time they got there. Students talked in clumps at breakfast tables while half of Hufflepuff stood ranged behind Cedric and Ed stood in front of him, hands on his shoulders, trying to hold him back from Argus Filch. On crutches or not, Cedric looked ready to physically accost the caretaker. In a cage sitting on the head table, Esiban skittered about wildly while Hagrid peered at him with a worried frown. Other teachers sat or stood behind the table, appearing troubled or dubious. Cedric was shouting, "He does _not_ have rabies! He couldn't _possibly_ have rabies!"

"He attacked Mrs. Norris!" Filch was saying, fist raised -- whip gripped in it. "I demand that the animal be disposed of!"

"If he attacked your stupid cat, it's because your cat attacked him!"

"That wild beast hates cats!"

"Esiban gets along fine with Hermione's cat!"

That was, Hermione thought, a bit of an exaggeration. Esiban and Crookshanks tolerated each other at the best of times -- but it was true that she'd never seen Esiban attack Crookshanks unprovoked. She hurried over to his side. "He couldn't have rabies if he had vaccinations, Ced. Tell them that."

Cedric barely glanced at her. "Vaccinations?" Then he shook his head and turned his attention back to his Head of House, Professor Sprout. "Esiban didn't escape from my room -- someone _let_ him out. This was deliberate!" Sprout appeared deeply distressed while Umbridge just looked triumphant.

"A _wild_ animal -- of a species well-known for carrying rabies, I understand -- has attacked a teacher's well-loved and _domestic_ pet," Umbridge crowed. "There's a reason only certain animals are approved for students by the Ministry and raccoons most certainly aren't on the list! I must agree with Mr. Filch. The animal should be disposed of immediately." And she pulled her wand.

Cedric pulled his own before anybody could stop him and aimed it directly at Umbridge. Hermione dove for Cedric's wand hand even as Professor McGonagall snatched Umbridge's wand right out of hers. "There will be no disposing of pets until it's been verified that the animal in question is, in fact, ill." And the authority in her voice brooked no argument even from the Headmistress. She turned to Hagrid. "Professor Hagrid, I believe this is your area of expertise?"

Hagrid nodded from where he'd been watching Esiban. "He does look a mite wild, but I can' tell if that's 'cos he's got the water disease or 'cos he's locked up. If he ain' been outside, then rabies ain' likely." Hagrid glanced over at Filch, eyes narrow. "Animals'll bite if cornered, yeh? I reckon all we gotta do is isolate an' watch him. An' Argus, that means Mrs. Norris, too."

Filch looked positively offended, and threw a glance at Umbridge. "Surely that won't be necessary," Umbridge said in her sweetest little-girl voice.

"'Fraid it is," Hagrid replied mildly. "Can' go havin' a possibly rabid animal wanderin' the halls o' Hogwarts. I mean, if y'are that convinced the 'coon's rabid that yeh want ter put him down w'out testin' him first, then we gotta assume the cat is now, too. But -- " he shrugged -- "maybe we oughta jus' isolate 'em both fer 10 days?" He waved a beefy hand at Cedric. "Come on up here, Diggory. 'Coon's scared, stuck in tha' cage. Let's see how he acts when he smells and sees yeh -- if tha' calms him down a bit."

Face still white with anger and fear, Cedric glanced at Hermione, but she nodded and so did Harry, both trying to convey that Hagrid was on his side, however much they might have disagreed in the past. Hermione couldn't imagine Hagrid ever condoning the killing of an animal unless absolutely necessary. So Cedric crossed the floor towards the cage, Hermione following in his wake. "It's me," he said softly to the raccoon. "I'm here now and I won't let them hurt you." Esiban's wild dashing slowed and he cowered against the cage side closest to Cedric, reaching through the bars with his little black hands. Before Hagrid or anyone else could stop him, Cedric had shifted balance onto one crush and put out his own hand where the raccoon could grip it -- or scratch it.

But Esiban did nothing violent at all, just pawed at Cedric almost helplessly. "Please let him out," Cedric pleaded. "He's not rabid."

Hermione could see that Hagrid's eyes were sad and his hand came down on Cedric's shoulder. "I can' do that, not in here. But ten days ain' so long, an' you can come see him ev'ryday. I'll take real good care o' him fer yeh, and then you can have 'im back wi' a clean bill o' health -- "

"That _beast_ will not be permitted back inside the castle," Umbridge declared. "I've had enough of students doing whatever they want around here. There are rules, and those rules _will_ be obeyed."

"Now, Professor Umbridge," Hagrid began. "He ain' been a danger to nobody in six years -- "

"I do not consider the halfbreed to be sufficiently educated in animal healing -- "

"_Professor_ Hagrid," McGonagall growled, "_is_ our Care of Magical Creatures instructor."

Umbridge spun, lips drawn back in something closer to a growl than a grin. "And he is also, may I remind you, on probation for that position. Nor to my knowledge does he possess a license in veteranary mediwizardry. I'll call a Ministry-appointed animal healer who can examine the animal and dispose of it safely when it's shown -- as I'm sure it will be -- to have rabies."

Cedric had continued to stroke Esiban through the cage bars while the quarrel raged around him. Now, he interrupted to say, "My father's equipped to isolate him, and has a licensed animal healer who works with him. I'll have him come and fetch Esiban."

"I really think a Ministry-appointed -- "

"I really don't!" Cedric snapped, turning his head to glare. Hermione could see that he was perilously close to tears and he'd just die of shame if he broke down in the Great Hall in front of the student body. "Esiban doesn't have rabies. Somebody _let_ him out of his cage _and_ my room, then provoked him until he attacked Mr. Filch's cat. But if he _should_ turn out to be sick, no responsible animal healer would declare him healthy -- even one who works with my father."

"That sounds perfectly reasonable, Headmistress," Professor McGonagall intervened. "I'll send Amos Diggory an owl myself."

But Hermione thought Umbridge too conscious of the students watching and she wasn't finished making an example of Cedric. "So am I to understand that Mr. Diggory is _refusing_ to comply with a direct order from the Headmistress?"

McGonagall, who'd risen to leave, glanced around. "This concerns the disposition of his pet -- "

"A non-regulation pet that has attacked another -- regulation -- animal, and which he is now protecting from the consequences in direct defiance of the Headmistress." Her eyes nearly glittered and Hermione gripped Cedric's elbow. "Hardly an example of either obedience or responsibility at a time when such an example is most sorely needed." She smiled widely. "Mr. Diggory therefore has a choice -- he may turn over the wild beast to me for consignment to the proper authorities, or he may relinquish his badge as Head Boy."

The entire hall went dead silent, the only sound an initial squeak from someone in Hufflepuff.

Cedric, however, barely paused before turning to Hermione, presenting his left breast with the badge. "Take it off," he told her.

She looked up at him, but did as he asked. She knew this wasn't even a choice for him -- his badge or Esiban's life. Her hands stayed remarkably steady as she removed his mark of office, reducing him to just another seventh year, and handed it to him so he could grip it between the fingers of his right hand on his crutch. He crossed to Umbridge with a dethroned king's dignity, and held it out. He might have dropped it at her feet or flung it at her, but even here at the end, he showed more class than she ever would. Hermione wiped one eye and felt Hagrid put a hand on her shoulder.

"Head Boy," Cedric said quietly, "is an empty honor when compared to the trust and devotion of a living creature for whom I've been parent, friend, and companion since he was barely a month old. That's not something you'll ever understand, professor. And I pity you for it."

Turning his back on Umbridge, who appeared torn between delight in her victory and affront at his words, he came back to where Hagrid still stood by the cage that held Esiban. "Will you help me carry him up to my room where we can put him back in his own cage? Then you can take him to your cabin until my father comes for him."

"'Course I will," Hagrid said, patting Cedric on the shoulder again. "Yer a good lad, Diggory."

Then with Hagrid carrying the cage containing Esiban, Cedric, Hermione, his mates, and Harry and Ron made their way out of the still silent Great Hall.

Later that same day after classes, Hermione went with Cedric down to Hagrid's hut where Cedric was to meet his father. His friends had offered to come, and Harry, but he'd turned them down. Too clever to ask permission first, Hermione had just followed. She didn't want him doing this alone. His face was stony and his robes looked very blank without his Head Boy badge. He didn't speak to her. Then again, according to Scott, he hadn't spoken all day unless he absolutely had to -- and in a quiet gesture, none of his professors had asked him to answer anything in classes. Hermione had spent her own day miserable and fractious, and the rest of the student body had been subdued, other students with non-regulation pets wearing pinched, worried faces.

When they arrived, Mr. Diggory wasn't there yet and Hagrid nodded to them both. "I got summat ter do in the forest. You two make yerselves at home." And he headed out the door carrying what looked to be a rather large rucksack. Hermione might have asked him what he was up to, but her attention was on Cedric, who'd gone over to let Esiban out of the cage.

The raccoon seemed to know that something was up, although the mere fact he was in a strange place was probably a clue. As soon as Cedric opened the door, he was out of it and up on Cedric's shoulder, rubbing his cheek against Cedric's in welcome, or perhaps comfort. He always seemed to know when his master was upset.

Hermione let them be and went about making tea. She'd spent enough time in Hagrid's hut that she knew were everything was, and she wanted to give Cedric some privacy without leaving him completely alone. There was only so much stiff-upper lip a person could manage -- even a proper English boy. Especially when his beloved pet was about to be taken from him.

At least Umbridge hadn't succeeded in having Esiban killed. Then again, from Umbridge's point of view, this must be a win-win situation. If she'd been permitted to kill the raccoon, it would have torn all the fight right out of Cedric. But Hermione didn't think she'd really been aiming for that. If she had, she'd just have killed Esiban outright and justified it after by his attack on Mrs. Norris. No, she'd meant to force Cedric to give up his badge -- and do so in front of the whole school. She'd known perfectly well that Cedric wouldn't permit anything to happen to Esiban, so she'd been able to cast his protection as defiance, and must have been planning this for some time. She'd known raccoons were infamous for carrying rabies, and had also apparently known they couldn't be given vaccines to guard against it. Hermione herself hadn't known that until Peter had told her at lunch. Most Wizarding pets were spell protected, but a raccoon was an exotic animal in Britain. They had no protections for them, and there wasn't any available in Canada or the U.S., either.

Hermione pursed her lips, remembering the night Umbridge had first seen Esiban in Cedric's room -- the night of their near-disastrous bath. She wondered if Umbridge had begun to plot then or if she'd decided to go after Cedric only in the wake of the twins' successful flight as a way to short-circuit the return of student morale? They'd all been reminded that if Umbridge couldn't catch them in actual wrong-doing, she could find other means of imposing her authority.

First Dumbledore. Now Cedric. Hermione wondered who Umbridge would aim for next? Harry, no doubt, and her lips thinned as she set the kettle to boiling with a tap of her wand and stole a glance behind her. Cedric had lowered himself onto a chair, Esiban in his lap as he stroked the raccoon's fur. Still daytime, Esiban was sluggish and content to lie sprawled across Cedric's legs.

A knock on the door startled them both, and she went to answer. A solemn Amos Diggory stood on the other side. He nodded to her and then went over to his son, squatting down by Cedric's chair and speaking to him softly. Hermione returned to Hagrid's makeshift kitchen and tried not to listen in, although she picked out a word or two that carried due to anger**: **"rabies" and "set me up" and "wanted to _kill_ him."

When the tea was ready, she brought a cup of it to Cedric -- who set it on a table beside his chair -- and another to his father, but Mr. Diggory waved it away. "There's no point in dragging this out," he said. "It's bad enough as it is. This animal is not sick. I've seen animals in the early stages of rabies and this one isn't, but I'll see that he's isolated as required for 10 days, then Rachel can write up the report for the Ministry. We'll take good care of him until you're home for the summer, Ced. It's just a little over two months now. What with your exams to prepare for, it'll speed right by."

Cedric nodded, doing his best to look resigned and stoic, but his eyes were damp as he put Esiban back in his cage. His father threw a blanket over it so the raccoon wouldn't see himself taken from Cedric, but Hermione could hear him scratching at the bars and chittering pathetically. Cedric had put a hand over his mouth. His father didn't look at him, just rested a hand on his shoulder, then exited the hut, shutting it quietly behind him.

Hermione heard Cedric's breath hitch behind her, then he was getting up, the sound of his rising awkward. She looked around. His face was terrible, all twisted as he struggled not to break down, and she felt her own eyes sting and burn. He turned away from her and got about three steps towards Hagrid's rear door before he simply lost control and started to sob, his back to her, his shoulders shaking.

She's seen him angry and ecstatic, she'd seen him in terrible pain and exquisite pleasure. She'd seem him laughing, mischievous, and delighted. She'd seen him worried, sad and stressed.

But she'd never, ever seen him cry, and didn't know if he'd want to be held or left alone. Despite her closeness to him -- or perhaps because of it -- she felt less easy about imposing comfort on him unasked than she had with Harry.

But the weeping was getting worse, not tapering off, and she crossed to take his arm, guiding him back into his seat and kneeling in front of him as he bent over, face in hands. "I'm so sorry," she said, arms going around his shoulders.

"He's never been away from me for more than a few nights," Cedric whispered, words almost impossible to make out amid the soul-tearing sobs. Hermione thought the tears came from more than just Esiban's loss, although she knew Cedric's attachment to the raccoon went well beyond anything she felt for Crookshanks, or even Harry for Hedwig. Even so, Hermione suspected this was a final straw sort of breakdown. He'd been under so much pressure but had borne it and borne it, and now, just couldn't anymore.

So she held and rocked him, crooning without quite realizing what she was doing as he clung to her, his fingers tangled in her hair. "I'm sorry," he said after a while. "I'm sorry."

"For what?"

"I just . . . for this. I can't . . . I hate this! I hate being weak!"

"Shhh," she said and stroked his hair. "You're not weak. You've shouldered more than anybody had a right to ask of you." She bit her lip then blurted, "I am . . . incredibly _proud_ of you, Cedric. You're stronger than most of us." He pulled away to stare at her from very red, puffy eyes, as if he couldn't quite fathom what she was saying. Smiling at him, she wiped her own eyes. "Never apologize to me for crying when you're at the end of your rope. You wouldn't be human if you didn't."

* * *

**  
Notes:** A raccoon rabies vaccine (administered through food) wasn't approved for use in the U.S. until late 1995 and as raccoons aren't native in England, it's unlikely it would be available there for Esiban. Yeah, perhaps magic could get around that, but British wizards wouldn't have any reason to concoct anti-rabies potions for American racoons.


	31. Badgers at Bay

Nasty shocks weren't over for the evening. When Cedric and Hermione returned to the castle, Cedric couldn't open the door to his suite, and with his rage and frustration still so close to the surface, he slammed a crutch into the wood, swearing violently. Hermione had to throw her arms around him before he either hurt himself or fell over.

"Stay here," she ordered him and raced for the stairs, thumping her way down them to dash for the Great Hall. Harry and Ron were still there at the Gryffindor table, keeping one eye on the doors while Harry guarded a covered plate that he must have saved for her. She had no time for that now. "Cedric can't get into his rooms," she told them.

But Harry and Ron weren't the only ones who'd seen her enter. Umbridge made her way down from the high table to approach them, a simpering smile on her face. "Is there a problem?"

Hermione glared. "You know there is. Why can't Cedric get into his rooms?"

"_His_ rooms? I understood those were the Head Boy's rooms. He's no longer Head Boy."

Hermione would have lost her temper but felt Harry's hand on her back. He'd risen too, and she found it terribly ironic that Harry was calming _her_ down, cautioning her. She took a breath and managed to get out, "They haven't been the Head Boy's rooms in over a century. Dumbledore assigned them to Cedric for his _medical condition_."

"Nonetheless . . . "

"He can't navigate the Hufflepuff dormitories very well!"

"If he's that handicapped, then perhaps he shouldn't have attempted to return to school in the first place? All these special _considerations_ for _one_ student . . . it doesn't seem fair to the rest. There is a point past which the handicapped must simply admit they have _limitations_ and can't do everything a normal person can."

Hermione wanted to scream, wanted to slap her, wanted to sue her for discrimination . . . but of course, that was a Muggle idea. The Wizarding World could be so advanced in some ways, such as putting women in positions of power long before Muggles had, but so frighteningly backward in others. "We'll see what Madam Pomfrey has to say about this," she warned, spinning on her heel to stalk away.

There were several students in the infirmary, including Pansy Parkinson sporting a pair of deer antlers. It seemed the Inquisitorial Squad still wasn't faring well despite the New Order. A harassed looking Pomfrey halted in front of her. "And what's wrong with _you_, Miss Granger?"

"Nothing," Hermione replied. "But there's a problem concerning Cedric."

"Cedric?" The nurse might find Hermione mildly exasperating as she, Harry and Ron had a habit of landing in hot water that left at least one of them injured, but Cedric was another matter. Like most of the teachers, Pomfrey doted on him a bit. "Oh heavens, did that woman send him into another attack?" And she turned for her office, but Hermione's hand on her arm stopped her.

"No. At least, not yet. But Professor Umbridge seems to have decided that his suite assignment was a privilege of his Head Boy status, not a medical necessity. She's locked him out. In fact, she said that sometimes handicapped people just have to acknowledge they can't do the same things 'normal' people can do."

Already angry, Pomfrey drew herself up to her full height (which wasn't inconsiderable) and Hermione could almost imagine the steam coming out of her ears. "She said that, did she?" Turning back to the room, she surveyed her array of patients, three from Slytherin (all on the Inquisitorial Squad) and one random Gryffindor third year who seemed to have managed to jinx himself with jelly legs in Charms class. "I want everybody to stay put. I'll be back shortly."

"But Madam Pomfrey -- " Pansy began.

"You won't be worse off for another half hour with antlers, Miss Parkinson."

Hermione concealed her grin as she followed the nurse out.

By the time Pomfrey (with Hermione in tow) arrived outside Cedric's door, it seemed that half the staff of Hogwarts was already there, including Umbridge, who must have tried to steal a march before anyone could arrive -- and been intercepted. Cedric himself sat on his trunk, which Umbridge must have packed up in his absence. He was glaring at everybody. He hated so to have a fuss made about his condition -- it embarrassed him -- but he was also furious with Umbridge. So if he'd been uncertain about getting the rooms in the first place, he was nonetheless enraged over losing them. (And if he lost the suite, he'd no doubt lose his access to the bath, and Hermione knew how much he needed that.) Settling down beside him, she laid a hand on his knee and he laced his fingers through hers. It said enough without speaking.

Umbridge had turned to face Pomfrey and this newest sally. "I believe there's been some confusion," Pomfrey began, "about the purpose behind Mr. Diggory's assignment to these rooms."

Umbridge's wide smile showed teeth. "Oh, I don't believe there has. It's really quite simple. These rooms are the Head Boy's chambers. Mr. Diggory is no long Head Boy . . . by his own choice, in fact."

"He needs these rooms -- "

"Why?" Umbridge asked. "Special consideration has already been given to him in allowing him access to the lift in order to get to his classes. I understand that his wheelchair has a levitation charm on it, and he can navigate stairs on crutches -- and the Hufflepuff dormitories have fewer steps in them than the others in any case. These rooms were a convenience for him, _not_, in fact, a necessity."

Pomfrey's lips thinned. "I don't believe you have a license for mediwizardry -- "

"It doesn't take a license to recognize the difference between necessity and convenience, Madam Pomfrey. Mr. Diggory has been provided with the _necessary _handicapped access. He _can_ reach all his classes and he _can_ reach the Hufflepuff dormitories. But if he needs to be coddled in order to attend this school, then perhaps he should reconsider whether or not he belongs here?"

Hermione felt Cedric squeeze her hand but he didn't say a word as McGonagall butted in, "Mr. Diggory never asked for _special_ consideration -- "

"Then what _is_ the problem here?" Umbridge asked. "If he didn't ask for any, why are we standing around in the hallway? There's no _medical_ reason for him to have these rooms. They're merely _convenient_ not _necessary_. I, at least, have better ways to spend an evening." She turned to leave.

"Will Cedric still have access to the bathroom?"

Hermione hadn't expected to ask that, but found herself on her feet and the voice had been hers.

Umbridge turned back. "The bathroom? You mean the prefects' bathroom?" She gestured to the door. "He's not a prefect, is he?"

"He does _need_ the bath," Hermione said.

"Sit down, Granger," Cedric whispered behind her.

"No, Cedric; this is important. Cedric needs access to that bath, professor; it helps him to relax."

"I concur with Miss Granger," Pomfrey added, annoyed at having been trumped by Umbridge. "The bath keeps the frequency of attacks at bay."

Umbridge's small pig eyes narrowed further. "Mr. Diggory, have you suffered any of these attacks outside school? No? Do you have access to the prefects' bath outside school? No. Well, I believe that settles that." And she turned again.

"That's not true!" Hermione called.

"Hermione, _please_ -- " Cedric hissed.

"He did have an attack, over the Easter holidays."

"Only one? Compared to how many here? I don't believe that makes much of a case -- "

"He's not under the same kind of pressure there!" Hermione replied, furious and stamping her foot. "You're twisting the facts to suit your own agenda!"

"And you're not? I don't believe there is sufficient evidence to support your conclusions that Mr. Diggory _needs_ the prefects' bath any more than he _needs_ the Head Boy's suite." Her eyes shifted from Hermione to Cedric behind her. "He can live like any other student. Or withdraw. That _is_ my final decision and the next person who attempts to argue with it will be fired" -- she glared at Pomfrey -- "or expelled" -- she glared at Hermione.

Then she walked away. The hallway was silent. Furious, eyes hot with tears, Hermione spun to look at Cedric. His head was bowed. "Did you have to tell her about Easter?" was all he said before Professor Sprout was there, along with Flitwick and McGonagall and Pomfrey, all fussing over him. It was verging on curfew by now, so she let the professors take him downstairs and return him to the Sett. She followed as far as the stairway to the Hufflepuff common room where, abruptly, McGonagall halted dead, head turned sideways towards Lucy Diggory's painting.

There in the clearing, a stag lay sprawled on its side, struggling against the hounds attacking it. While they watched, it raised its nose and gave a great bleat, then abruptly surged to its feet, hide torn and bloody, but antlers lowered at the dogs, who kept their distance. "It isn't over yet, Mr. Diggory," McGonagall said, turning to look at him.

* * *

In the Sett, everything was different and all Cedric's familiar routines had to be rethought. Small matters became annoying all over again. He had to Stick his mobility equipment to the walls in the dormitory toilets, and no stall was quite big enough for him to maneuver about easily without magical modification to enlarge it -- easy enough to do for Professor Sprout, but yet another reminder. In the showers, he took twice as long as anybody else -- not to mention that everybody now knew how awkward he looked. He had no privacy -- and began to suspect Dumbledore had given him his own rooms for reasons that went beyond mere ease of access. His fellow students tried not to stare, but mostly failed. He could see the pity in their eyes before they looked away.

Fortunately, his first morning there fell on a weekend or he'd never have made it to breakfast and class on time, even though he'd risen early assuming it _would_ take longer. He sat with his House rather than with Hermione. Part of him wanted nothing more than to throw himself into her arms for comfort -- which made the other part too proud to do so. What kind of a weakling was he?

Despite the fact breakfast was almost over, Umbridge must have been waiting for him to arrive before Morning Notices. "A rather important announcement for today," she began, smiling serenely out at the room as if three of the four tables weren't glaring back in sullen if impotent rebellion. "As you all know, we've had a little, hem, change of the guard among our student officers. I'm most pleased to announce that Adrian Pucey has graciously agreed to step forward and conclude the year for us as Head Boy."

Beside Cedric, Ed spat coffee into his cereal bowl. Cedric gave no reaction, though there were low, somewhat ugly mutters around him. "Pucey and not Davies?" Cedric heard Ernie mutter, further down the table.

"Roger counted himself out when he publicly apologized to me after that _Prophet_ article," Cedric replied mildly.

At the head table, Umbridge was clapping for attention. "Students," Umbridge was saying, "I'll expect _all_ of you to give Mr. Pucey the respect he deserves as Head Boy."

"Yeah, we'll be sure to do that," Zacharias muttered. "Right in the same toilet they rescued Montague from. Anybody know where the twins got that Vanishing cabinet?" His comment earned spurts of laughter -- and Umbridge's notice.

She turned her gaze on Hufflepuff. "Mr. . . . Smith, I believe? I think you need a detention to work on your manners. Obviously, your parents didn't teach you not to talk when your elders were speaking."

Umbridge called Pucey up to receive his badge, and Pucey threw Cedric a snide look over his shoulder as he strolled forward, then returned to Slytherin table to whistles and claps -- and dead silence from the rest of the hall. It made a stark contrast to how the student body had reacted to Cedric's acclamation by Hufflepuff at the year's beginning.

Umbridge sat down then and those students finished with breakfast began leaving. "What are you doing today, mate?" Peter asked Cedric.

"Burying myself in the library; we've got barely four weeks till exams."

Cedric felt a hand on his shoulder and looked around. It was Hermione. "Ced?"

"I'm not finished eating my breakfast yet," he told her. He wanted to apologize for not sitting with her, but pride wouldn't let him. He was still smarting a bit from breaking down in front of her the day before.

"I'm going to the library," she said after a moment.

"I'll see you there shortly then."

"Do you want me to wait for you?"

"No need."

She was stroking his arm through the sleeve of his robe, as if she were gentling a horse, and he found it annoying. He pulled his arm out of her grip. "Stop."

"Sorry." A pause, then she whispered, "Are you still angry with me about last night? For mentioning what happened over the holidays?"

"What?" He glanced up at her. "No. Go on. I'll see you in a bit."

Half an hour later they met in the library and he tried to study, but her nervous sadness haunted him. He wanted to say he was sorry, but sorry for what? For being angry? Didn't he have a right to be angry sometimes? Life was shitty at the moment. Why did she have to make it about _her_? He wasn't angry with _her_, except of course, now he was because she was making him feel guilty.

After a while, he pulled out his little journal where he kept it in a pocket, opened it and wrote:

_Drops of you  
fall on me  
like the contents of Ceridwen's Cauldron --  
soul-opening. But sometimes you cut me  
with sharp obsidian eyes  
so I flee. Don't follow  
or you'll devour me._

He shut the book. She glanced up, saw what he was writing in and returned her attention to her notes. She'd never asked to read his journal, never tried to despite her famous curiosity. She understood there were things he needed to have just as his, and he was grateful. If she ever saw some of what he'd written in there about her, she'd no doubt die of embarrassment. Or yell at him in a rage. It was where he put things he needed to get out of his head, but didn't want -- or couldn't -- say to her. His journal was his literary Pensieve, he supposed.

He watched her study for a while until she looked up at him. "What?" she asked.

"Girls talk. Boys don't." The words startled him as much as they startled her. He hadn't really meant to explain anything.

She lifted an eyebrow. "They might feel better if they did talk."

"They might," he agreed. "But we're silly and stubborn that way. It's a pride thing."

"I know," she said, smirking. "Silly boys and their pride."

"I'm not angry with you," he said, repeating what he'd told her at breakfast.

She just nodded, returning to her book. "I know. I just . . . wish I could make you feel better."

"You do, poppet. Just being with you makes me feel better."

She rolled her eyes. "Flattery will get you everywhere, Mr. Diggory."

Grinning suddenly despite everything, he bent over the table. "Even a bit of snogging in the broom cupboard on the third floor?"

She raised her eyes again. "It's rather cramped, isn't it?"

He shrugged with one shoulder. "Whatever works." It wasn't as if they had opportunity for any other privacy now.

She went back to her book and he went back to watching her, then picked up his journal again, opened it, dipped his quill and began to sketch. When he was done, he tilted his head and eyed the sketch critically. Not especially good -- he was out of practice -- but not so bad, either. She was pretending not to pay attention even though he knew she was. He shut his journal, only then noticing Umbridge standing near Pince's desk, watching them. Renewed anger curled in his belly and feeling sulky, he returned his attention to his book.

A bit before dinner, he and Hermione did take that break in the broom cupboard on the third floor, and it _was_ cramped, but there were no cobwebs and little dust. According to gossip, they were hardly the first students to employ it for something besides storage. Although he had to stand up, there was a little stepping stool so Hermione's face was on a level with his and he didn't have to bend, too.

For the next few days, that cupboard offered a bit of relief while tensions rose around them. Pomfrey had contacted his doctors at St. Mungo's and Umbridge was given orders to permit him back into the prefects' bath. But if she were forced to allow it, she didn't have to make it easy for him and assigned certain hours -- unpopular ones so he 'didn't inconvenience the actual prefects,' which usually meant choosing between a bath or dinner. Yet Umbridge hadn't counted on either the loyalty of his denmates or the rather charming intervention of Dobby, who insisted on 'feeding Harry Potter's very good friend' -- which translated to stuffing him silly in the kitchen later.

On one such occasion, Cedric bent over the small table (made for elves, not people, especially not tall people) to ask, "Dobby, tell me -- do you like being free?"

Dobby blinked in surprise, pointed ears sagging. "Dobby is very happy to serve at Hogwarts, Cedric Malfoy. It is a great honor."

Cedric blinked in turn at the name. "I'm not a Malfoy, Dobby. And that wasn't what I asked. I want to know if _you_ like being free -- it's not a trick question. Honestly. You've been very kind to me, which I appreciate." Dobby's ears uncurled again. "But what do _you_ think of Hermione's society to free house-elves?"

Somewhat to Cedric's surprise, Dobby came over to pull out the other chair and seat himself, looking oddly dignified. "I think Harry Potter's friend has a big heart, but not so good an idea. The house-elves . . . they is offended because they is honored to work at Hogwarts."

Cedric nodded. He wasn't terribly surprised, but it still didn't get at his other question. "How about you? Do you like being free? Really -- I want to know."

Dobby appeared thoughtful. "Yes. And no. It is hard to get work as I's wanting paying. But better than what I had." He lowered his eyes as if considering banging his head on the tabletop. "If they was all like you in that Family . . . "

"Don't you dare even _think_ about punishing yourself." Cedric reached over to grip Dobby's shoulder and hold him upright. "But tell me -- could you help Hermione with ideas that really _would_ make the lives of house-elves better without offending everybody?"

Dobby pondered the question, then nodded after a minute. "Yes, I's could. She's never asked, but I's could."

"Good," Cedric replied, grinning. "I may hold you to that in a while."

Later that same night, he met Hermione in the broom cupboard. What had begun as an amusing and gentle diversion on Saturday had become intense and desperate by Tuesday. Cedric found release in the physical, and despite his intellectual bent -- or perhaps because of it -- sex let him disconnect his mind, at least for a little while. So there in the cramped darkness of the little cupboard, he pulled her to him and they got right down to business, mouths hot and hands everywhere. After five minutes, she put up a Silencing spell and he Locked the door.

Turning back to her, he pushed her up against the wall, using his weight to hold her still as he needed his arms to balance. She had one arm around his neck and the other around his torso, moving it up and down his back and sometimes over his arse, pulling him against her. With the part of his mind still able to think, he feared they were going to overbalance and land in a tangled heap on the floor, but she got a leg around his hips beneath his robes and held him. He let go of one crutch to brace his arm against the wall over her head. He could feel her crotch hot against his even through four layers of cloth -- or three. She'd pulled up her school skirt so her knickers pressed directly against him.

"I can't believe we're doing this in a _cupboard_," she said after a while, her voice thick.

He laughed against the sweet skin of her neck. "You don't find it dangerous and exciting?"

"I find it a bit uncomfortable, actually."

He pulled back to peer at her in the dimness. "My practical Granger. Want to go back to the library?"

"No," she said. "I've missed you -- missed your body."

"She only wants me for my body," he teased. But what she'd just said thrilled him -- made him feel less guilty for wanting hers. She trailed fingers over the front of his trousers to unzip them, pushing them over his arse so they dropped in a tangle around his braces, his underpants following. "If I move a step, I'll fall over."

"Then you'd better not move, had you?" She slipped down to sit on the stool in front of him, gripping his erection and taking it in her mouth. "Oh, shit!" he howled, throwing his head back -- very glad of the Silencing spell. She had one hand on his arse, kneading him as she moved him in and out. She was getting rather good at this; the holidays had offered some opportunity for practice and he wished he could see, but feared lighting a wand. They might be able to muffle sound but he didn't know a spell to conceal a light.

He was panting now and could feel himself twitch inside her mouth. "Hermione, sweetheart -- " He squeezed his eyes shut and tried not to buck. She knew what his warning meant and drew away, moving up his body again until she was back between him and the wall, arms around his neck, pulling him closer. "You, ah, seem to have lost your knickers," he said, palm rubbing her now-bare hip.

"And you lost your underpants."

"Think we should do something about that?"

"Depends on what you want to do."

He shifted his weight a bit. "Put your leg around me again for balance." She did so and he released his other crutch, leaning it against the wall so that his arm braced above her and his weight against her body held him up. Slipping his freed hand under her leg, he hitched it higher on his hip, then slid his fingers around beneath to find her wet folds. She hissed and rubbed against him, her hand busy on his erection, using her own fluids for lubrication. He could smell the strong musk scent of her and her breath puffed against his jaw as she panted. After a minute, and with the stool giving her the height, she angled his erection so the tip rubbed her clit, stimulating them both at once, her fingers stroking up and down on the shaft and around the retracted foreskin. He slipped his fingers inside her, moving in and out rapidly until she was whining and grinding against him. He wasn't thinking about anything now except that whine and how good this felt, how much he'd needed this after everything.

So he was a little surprised when he felt her pull his hand back, then move his cock there instead and sink down on him just a little. Just enough to push the head inside her.

He shouted in a mixture of surprise and extreme pleasure, instinct making him surge forward, pushing her arse up against the wall behind them, the back of her robe her only cushion against cold stone. "Oh, God," she muttered, one arm tightening around his neck, the other hand gripping his hip. "You're inside me."

He almost laughed. "I am, aren't I?" And he was. He was inside her -- wet, hot and all around him, gripping tightly, melting him. He was _inside_ her. "All right, Granger?"

"I -- yeah. Yeah." She sounded almost relieved. "Hurts a bit, but not so bad." He could barely think and dropped his forehead against her shoulder, rocking his hips in an undulation that moved him in and out an inch or two. It was the best he could manage with his precarious balance. She was holding him up, arm around neck and waist and her leg clenching his hips. His free hand moved up her body under her shirt and bra, finding her breast to tug and roll the hard nipple. "Oooh," she moaned, but was still wincing too, just a bit, at every thrust.

He didn't know how much longer he could last. She was very tight; he'd forgotten how amazing this felt to be completely engulfed in a woman, and began rocking faster. She hissed. He wanted to ask if he was hurting her worse but simply couldn't make the words come. All he could get out of his mouth where incoherent noises. The hand that had been around his waist had moved up to claw at him under his shirt, short nails scraping the skin of his back and arse. "Shit!" he hissed, pinching her nipple and biting her neck, pushing one last time into her as orgasm hit him hard. His whole body jerked almost convulsively as he ejaculated inside her. "Shit," he shouted again. "Hermione. Oh. Oh. Oh -- "

Then he collapsed against her, knocking her off the stool altogether so that she was pinned between him and the wall. "Oops."

She giggled breathlessly -- probably because he was crushing the air out of her -- and the whole absurdity of the situation struck him. He'd just deflowered his girlfriend in a broom cupboard almost too small for two people to stand up straight. Gently, he lowered her onto her feet, slipping out of her and pushing away to find the crutch he'd propped against the wall. The other seemed to have fallen down and he had to Summon it back.

"Oh, yuck," he heard her say, half laughing. "I'm leaking!" And the mixture of surprise and disgust and amusement made him laugh too. Tension broken, they leaned into each other like two old stones and just giggled helplessly. They'd finally done it. Even if this wasn't what he'd expected, and it wouldn't qualify as great sex by any stretch, they'd done it, and he hadn't hurt her too much and she wasn't crying. Instead, he could feel her smiling against his neck in the dark, her arms around his shoulders. "I love you," he told her. "Very much."

"You're a proper romantic, Cedric Diggory, broom cupboard or no. Now clean me up, okay?"

They put themselves back together as best they could in the limited space and then checked each other's appearance by low wandlight. He slipped the pads of his fingers over the new bruise on her neck and tugged her collar higher. "Er, I bit you."

"I noticed."

"Does it hurt?"

"Not now. But I might have a bit of a problem explaining it to my roommates."

"Sorry about that, poppet." He smiled at her. "I'll have to explain the scratches down my back."

"I didn't scratch you!"

"Yeah -- you did." He was laughing. "A regular little wildcat, aren't you?"

She sniffed at him. "Don't be ridiculous.

Bending, he pressed his forehead to hers. "Are you all right?"

"I'm _fine_." She kissed his nose. "I'm fine. Now let's go back to the library. We left all our books there."

So they did. And if she walked a bit carefully, and sat down a bit gingerly, she smiled at him a lot and he smiled back. Besotted. He was completely besotted all over again and rubbed her hand atop the table while they read, flashes of what had just happened in the cupboard invading his brain and making his trousers tight. He had to shift twice to find a more comfortable way to sit. He remembered, too -- abruptly -- that he hadn't ever cast his key spell.

Worried, he tore off a corner of parchment to scribble, _"I forgot my spell. Totally lost my head,"_ and pushed it across to her.

She read it, eyebrow flickering, then bent to write back before handing it over_**: **__"Bad boy. But don't worry, I cast mine."_

He breathed out in relief and Vanished the parchment scrap as Pince stalked past.

* * *

Hermione kept sneaking glances at herself in mirrors for the rest of the night -- but she looked exactly the same. Shouldn't she look different? She was a maiden no more. She was a woman; he'd made her a woman. Or that's how she'd heard the other girls talk about it.

"You're being ridiculous," she scolded herself in the shower later as she scrubbed her body all over with soap. Could she really have called herself a virgin before tonight? Technically, yes, but given everything else they'd done, technicalities seemed rather silly. She hadn't gone from naiveté to sudden, secret gnosis; she'd walked this road in stages and the best part of tonight had been holding each other and giggling afterwards. She'd made him happy. After what must have been one of the most hellacious weeks of his life, she'd managed to make him forget it for a bit. When he'd kissed her goodnight outside Gryffindor Tower and told her (again) that he loved her, she'd felt how his joy thrummed all through him.

But she'd waited to shower until she could have the place to herself so she wouldn't have to explain his love bite to anybody. That had _hurt_, too -- hurt worse than when he'd actually entered her, and her hips were almost as sore from being pushed apart at an odd angle as her vagina was from being stretched to accommodate him. If tonight had been just the culmination of months of challenging boundaries, she still wasn't prepared to talk about it to anyone else -- even her 'sisters' in the Purple Dildo. It was a secret between her and Cedric, and when she went to bed later, she hugged her pillow and dreamed of him.

In the morning, he was waiting for her at the foot of the stairs like he used to do when they'd first started seeing each other. She wasn't sure exactly when he'd stopped that. It had simply faded away as they'd grown more comfortable with each other, more certain there was always a spot at the other's side. Nonetheless, it gave her a little thrill to see him waiting, all smiles. She paused on the final step, their faces almost on a level. "You look happy," she said softly.

"I am happy," he replied, "Had rather lovely dreams," and he kissed her quickly -- which elicited whistles and giggles from students passing, headed to breakfast in the Great Hall. Hermione was more inclined to smile than frown. These days, she and Cedric counted among the 'old, married couples,' definitely not the juicy news.

So when they made their way into the Great Hall only to face a flurry of whispers and stares, she frowned and glanced at him. "Why do I have this feeling I've got egg on my face?"

He was frowning too. "I've no idea."

"They can't -- ?"

"They can't. Trust me, if they did, I'd have heard about it all last night."

They sat together at the Gryffindor table, but the more people who arrived, the more stares they earned. Finally, exasperated, Cedric grabbed the edge of Zacharias Smith's robe as he moved past. _"What_ the bloody hell's going on?"

For once, even Zach appeared uncertain. "Er, well, um -- it's the painting."

Cedric just stared. "The painting? What about it?"

"It's not showing the deer fighting the dogs anymore. It's, er, well, um . . . " His eyes slid past Cedric's face to land on Hermione's. "Maybe you ought to go and look for yourself." And he fled.

"That's not raising my confidence," Cedric muttered, but they did as Zach suggested, and students scattered as they approached.

"Oh my God," Hermione muttered when she saw it. "That's . . . but that _can't_ be me."

Cedric stared too, heavy brows lowered in a thunderous frown. "I don't _believe_ she did this."

The picture showed a forest cave and a bed of skins, and the god and goddess lying with limbs entwined, naked and sweaty and panting, and clearly just finished copulating. A twist of hide and strategically placed rock kept the painting from being completely indecent, but as with all Lucretia's artwork, however explicit, it wasn't obscene. It would have been starkly beautiful, in fact, given the look of pure wonder and dazed enlightenment on their faces -- if that hadn't been her face, and Cedric's.

Oh, of course it _wasn't_, not exactly. As she'd seen before, the god looked just a bit different; he wasn't Cedric. And the goddess wasn't her. This figure was older -- more woman, less girl -- and the hair was darker, yet just as frizzy. It was her nose too, and her jawline. She'd been the model for the Maiden Goddess just as Cedric had been for the Hunter.

The girl in the picture opened her eyes, and they were the same deep brown as Hermione's, the same brown the doe's had been. And the goddess smiled at her -- as if knowing.

It was bad enough to see herself painted into a story without having given consent, but to appear _this_ way, and after the very night in which she _had_, in fact, lost her virginity? It was far, far too close to the truth. Invasive.

"What in the name of -- ! Good heavens!" It was a virtual shriek behind them. Umbridge, of course. They turned. Umbridge was gaping at them, then at the painting. Before they could say a word, she'd pulled off her pink cape to fling it over the painting's face as she'd done once before. But this time, Hermione had no desire to remove it. Umbridge stared. "What have you _done_?"

"It's a painting," Cedric replied. "Just a _painting_."

"That painting -- we both know your mother did something strange to it!"

"It's a _painting_," Cedric said again, although he was frowning. "It tells a story. And today -- in case you've forgotten -- is Beltane."

Turning, he headed back to the Great Hall, Hermione following, but Umbridge followed too. "Where were the two of you last night?" she shrieked.

"I was in my _bed_," Cedric called back. "And Hermione was in hers. Ask our roommates. The painting isn't _us_. It's a _painting_."

They had to repeat that refrain frequently throughout the day, and spent all of it in plain sight of everybody else. After supper they sat together, heads bent, in the courtyard. "_What_ is going on with that painting?" Hermione demanded in a whisper. "How did your mother know? How did she paint me into it? We weren't seeing each other yet most of the time she was working on it!"

"Shh," he said, covering her hand with his. "And I don't know. I talked to her over the holidays -- when we were in London at the gallery and you were calling your parents. I asked her about it then. She said it's not like any of her others. I don't know what she's done to it. It's . . . different -- as if it _records_. Have you noticed how it responds to things? It's symbolic, but it's all there."

"That image this morning wasn't symbolic!" Hermione hissed.

He put fingers over her lips and met her eyes. "I know. I can't believe she did that. I agreed to be her model. You didn't."

"But when could she have done it? And wouldn't she . . . need something from me? For that kind of magic?"

"She visited the castle and spent time with you. She even sketched you. Remember the copies you showed me? I didn't think anything of it at the time, but she must have painted you in when she brought the painting here."

"She could do that?"

He nodded. "A Master Painter can adjust a painting at any time until the painting's story begins to unfold. She painted you in when she knew we were together, and she must have taken some of your hair when you weren't paying attention, to mix into the paints. She may even have come here in person to do that."

"I can't believe it! What gave her the _right_ to do that?"

He shook his head, face deeply troubled. "I won't try to justify it, Granger. My mother is a law unto herself sometimes. I'm sure she's got a reason, whether or not we'd like it."

"What reason? Do you have any idea?"

His frown deepened. "I think she put the painting here to . . . act as a witness. Like I said, it's recording what happens to me -- anything of great significance." He smiled faintly. "Last night was pretty significant. We weren't here to see what it was doing when we were, er, um, when we were at my house."

"Harry didn't say anything to me about funny scenes over break -- nor anyone else. And you'd think they would. It was your mother who put us in the same bedroom too! Did she _mean_ for everybody here to see?"

"Perhaps . . . " he rubbed at his forehead. "Perhaps I have to be here -- physically present -- for the recording part to work. Some magic has distance limitations. I think that must be the case with this; my mother may have funny ideas, I admit, but I can't see her setting us up that way."

"But last night was Beltane Eve -- you said it yourself -- and that's part of the Summer King's legend. Cedric --" A very disturbing idea was wiggling its way into her mind. "Do you think maybe we couldn't have sex _before_ last night? Even if we'd wanted to -- tried to? Could she have, well, put a spell on us along with the painting? So it _had_ to happen last night?"

His gray eyes were very wide and he shook his head. "I don't -- no. No, Granger. I don't think that's possible."

"You would've said this painting wasn't possible. How do you know _what_ your mother can do? She's invented a completely new kind of magical painting, hasn't she? Everyone says she's brilliant -- the most original, most talented painter in 500 years. So she's done something even greater than _Ragnarök_. I mean, after that, what do you do for an encore? That painting out there _is_ you -- and me. It's recording, you're right. But what if it's also . . . dictating? What if it makes us . . . do things to match the myth? You said she'd intended it to be the story of the Summer King originally, but changed it and brought it here. We tried to have sex before last night and it didn't work. But last night, we didn't intend to have sex and did anyway. And this morning? Beltane morning? The painting shows _us_."

He was staring at her. "She wouldn't . . . Granger -- Hermione, no. She wouldn't do that."

"Are you so sure? She was in Slytherin."

His face went completely hard. "She's my _mother_. You're accusing my mother of . . . just -- no."

Hermione had doubts too, but arising more from a failure of logic than a belief that Lucretia Diggory wouldn't offend propriety if it suited her. She had no doubt that Cedric's mother would do whatever it took to protect him -- including invent an entirely new mode of artistic magic in order to watch over him when she couldn't. Yet his mother had apparently assumed they were _already _having sex, which if she'd known her painting would prevent it, she wouldn't have done.

"Cedric -- if you're inventing new magic, it could . . . get away from you, couldn't it? If it were really powerful?" She watched his face change as he followed her through mental hoops. "What if your mother's painting is doing things she didn't _intend_?" Fear settled heavy in her gut and she clutched at him. "She has to stop it -- the painting. The Summer King _dies_ on the 21st of June. She said the story would be over on the 24th, but if she painted the High Celtic Holidays into it -- the Summer King _dies_ before that. It has to be stopped!" Hermione started to rise.

Cedric's hands on her wrists pulled her back down. He looked upset too, but was shaking his head. "We can't get a message to her right now. We've got time. It's just the first of May -- we've some weeks more." He raised a hand to stroke his knuckle down her cheek. "It'll be fine."

Impulsively, she wrapped her arms around his neck. "I almost lost you a year ago, and I didn't even know you yet. I'm not losing you now." Her stomach felt sick. He hugged her back.

"I have no intention of dying, trust me. Now work on your Arithmancy." Frowning, she did as he said.

And whether it was worry over the painting, or the wild gossip, or a combination of all the stress of the past two weeks, Cedric had another attack the very next day. Peter sneaked her into the Hufflepuff dormitories Thursday after curfew. It had meant telling him about Harry's Invisibility cloak, but under the circumstances and after all they'd done for Cedric, she and Harry decided Peter, Ed and Scott could be trusted. So Harry lent it to her, and Peter and Scott got her inside.

Cedric was insensible from Abdoleo and still twitching in pain despite the heavy dose. Climbing into bed beside him, she stroked his sweaty hair. "Two more months," she whispered. "Less than that really. After you take your exams, you can leave this place. I want you to leave before all this kills you." She knew he couldn't hear her, but he seemed to relax with her lying against him.

And because she was there, she was witness to something historic.

"An Extraordinary Assembly." "An Extraordinary Assembly?" "Yeah, that's what I heard. Ed Carpenter called an Extraordinary Assembly." It was whispered up and down the Sett tunnels.

Scott popped his head in the door at one point to say, "Everybody's going to the common room. So, er, if we're not around, well -- we're in the common room." It seemed a rather blindingly obvious comment from sly Scott, which meant it was something else. A sideways invitation. So when the halls emptied, Hermione kissed Cedric's cheek, grabbed Harry's cloak and slung it around her like armor, then snuck out towards the common room herself.

" . . . seen what Umbridge has made of our school -- and what she's done to one of our own -- but it's more than that," Ed was saying. "This isn't about Cedric. It's about asking us to sit back and take it, like we have no say. But we do. I called an Extraordinary Assembly because I want to put forward a motion of no confidence."

What on earth?

The rest of the House must have been just as startled by Ed's proposal, as silence fell in its wake. Hermione settled herself in a corner between a wooden wine rack and the tunnel that led back to Cedric's room, and listened.

"A motion is on the floor," Scott said. He seemed to be acting in some capacity as leader. "Is there a second?"

"I second it," Peter said.

"Discussion?" Scott asked.

A pause, then Rose Zeller, the little curly-haired girl Cedric had befriended, raised her hand. "What's a motion of no confidence?" Several others nodded, apparently glad she'd asked.

Scott actually grinned. "Traditionally, it's a parliamentary action that amounts to a public censure -- a way to embarrass the prime minister. It usually results in his resignation."

"We could _do_ that to Umbridge?" Ernie wanted to know.

To Hermione's surprise, Scott gestured to Justin Finch-Fletchley, who stood. "We looked into it, Scott and I. There _have_ been motions of no confidence brought against Ministers of Magic -- but never against a Head at Hogwarts. There's been no procedure in place for it to happen -- only the Governors can force a Head to resign. But we found what may be a loophole. Hufflepuff has a unique . . . right, I suppose you'd say, called the 'Unanimous Voice.' If we can agree on a position by anonymous vote without any dissent, then we can invoke Unanimous Voice and force the staff -- or now, the Governors -- to listen to us. The more I considered that, the more it seemed that if we combine it with a motion of no confidence, we might be able to force Umbridge to resign. Both have precedents in the Wizarding World . . . they just haven't been used together before."

"This isn't something to do lightly," Scott added, his face uncharacteristically serious. "It requires a _completely_ unanimous vote. But Helga believed her House wouldn't converge on an error." He paused and looked around at the gathered students. "We're on the brink of a war but the Ministry is ignoring it, leaving us unprepared. I heard Rufus Scrimgeour tell Umbridge that he's not sure a single seventh year will pass the NEWT in Dark Arts. Not one. So what the bloody _hell _are we going to do when we leave here? Sit around and _hope_ He Who Must Not Be Named doesn't come knocking at our doors? Minister Fudge tells us it's all under control, but the plain fact is he hasn't got a damn _clue_ what to do, so he's sticking his head in the sand. And he's trying to silence anybody pointing out that fact. That's what Umbridge is here to do -- silence the opposition. Yes, that means Cedric, and Dumbledore, and Harry Potter . . . and anybody else inclined to object. This administration doesn't want us to think, just do the 'patriotic thing' and support them.

"Well, I don't." Scott stopped and looked out at all of them. "I don't. He Who Must Not Be Named is _back_, and we need to speak as One right now before it's too late."

He was, Hermione thought, not a bad speech-maker, if not quite in Cedric's league.

"Do you really think we can make the Governors fire her?" Zacharias asked. "We're just students."

"We're Hufflepuff," Justin replied. "This right to speak is our privilege. We're _not_ helpless. If we want the rest of the Wizarding World to know what's really going on here before it's too late, we _can_ tell them -- but only if we stand together. That's what Helga knew. If we stand together, they _can't_ break us. We're badgers. We hold on."

There was a lot of murmuring at this, and Susan Bones raised her hand. "Ed -- I call for a fifteen-minute recess. This is . . . big." She looked at him, her dark eyes serious.

He just nodded at her, and Hermione thought that Ed and Susan -- like she and Cedric -- had their own way of communicating. Ed drew a deep breath and called, "Fifteen minutes granted! Then we reconvene."

Hermione shrunk back against the wall so no one accidentally bumped into her in the sudden flurry of motion and chatter. Everybody seemed to be talking at once, and while it was clear that most of them realized it was anger over Cedric's dismissal that had motivated his friends to stage a coup, it also seemed that most of them agreed with Scott's basic assessment of the situation. Fudge was leading them all down a wide, well-paved path straight to hell. And they were scared.

Susan, Hermione saw, had gone forward to talk to Ed, Scott and Justin, her face earnest. After fifteen minutes (or really, twenty) had passed, Ed blew his Quidditch Captain's whistle and the rest settled down. "As Susan has reminded me," Ed began, "if we do pass the motion by Unanimous Voice, we have to have a former badger return in order to speak for us to the Head. Sprout can't do it. It's considered a conflict of interest. Basically, we don't want her sacked for our choices."

"And you think Umbridge _won't_ blame her?" a fourth year asked.

"It doesn't matter what Umbridge thinks. Procedure's clear. She can't be involved -- and she can't be blamed."

"So who's going to speak for us?" someone called.

"My aunt," Susan replied. "Well -- that's the plan anyway. She knows the law as well as anybody, and she was in Hufflepuff. If we pass this motion, I'll send her an owl."

"And Umbridge will let it through?"

"I won't say what it's _about_," Susan replied. "I'm not an idiot. She doesn't trust Umbridge either and we arranged something over Christmas. If I send her the right message, she'll be here within twelve hours."

Glances were exchanged. If Amelia Bones had made contingency plans with her niece, apparently that meant something.

"Further discussion?" Scott called.

"If we have a vote of no confidence," Ernie asked, "and Umbridge refuses to resign -- then what?"

"Then, well, we withdraw, mate."

"Just . . . up and leave? What about our exams?"

"We don't take them," Scott replied, holding Ernie's eyes. "But I doubt it'll come to that. Imagine all the attention this'll bring. Can the Ministry afford that sort of bad press? An entire _House_ at Hogwarts is so disgusted by the Ministry-appointed Headmistress, they demand that she _leave_? Justin tells me that's the real point of a no confidence vote -- to embarrass a Minister. Umbridge thinks we can't do anything -- we're at her mercy. But we aren't. _We don't have to play her game._"

"But -- "

"It's a _risk_, Ernie," Zacharias snarled almost in his face, and Hermione was a bit surprised. "You don't win anything if you don't risk." He held up a hand that was wrapped with a blood-stained bandage. Umbridge must have used her Punishment Quill on him, too, and Hermione bit her tongue to keep from squeaking. "I, for one, would be glad to vote against the Toad."

Ernie backed down, but appeared troubled, and Peter -- heretofore silent -- rose. "This will work only if we stick together. Our one strength -- what nobody else in this school really understands -- is that we _can_ do that. We understand what _union_ means. We're striking, Badgers. Unlike any other House, we _can_ make the Governors and the rest of the Wizarding World listen to us, but only if we speak together."

Silence fell for four heartbeats, five, six . . . Hermione heard someone mutter, "Wow, we're not sitting around debating it till midnight."

When a full ten seconds had passed without anybody objecting, Ed stood. "Then I call the vote."

Hermione watched it happen -- anonymous and surprisingly efficient, everybody was provided with two pebbles, one light, one dark. 'Aye' was light, 'nay' was dark. Each member put one pebble in an opaque jar and discarded the other into an equally opaque tin. Even one dark pebble in the jar would defeat the motion. Scott went round with the jar and tin. When everybody had dropped in his or her pebble, he took the jar back to the center of the room near the fireplace and -- carefully -- upended it.

All the pebbles were light.

"White," "white," "white," "white" . . . Hermione heard the decision carried around the room from those closest to the pile. "All white."

"The motion is passed!" Scott declared loudly. "Hufflepuff House has issued a vote of no confidence." He grinned. "Umbridge is about to find out what it means to tangle with badgers." He turned to look at Susan. "Send your aunt that message."

Hermione didn't stay to hear more but hurried back to Cedric's dormitory before the common room emptied, then waited until Peter arrived to help sneak her out again. It was midnight by then. "Did you hear?" he asked. Apparently, he'd known about Scott's inside-out invitation.

"Yeah," she replied. "Ced's going to kill you."

"No he won't. He might not agree, but he won't defy the House."

"I wouldn't be so sure -- "

"Hermione," Peter gripped her upper arm and looked her in the eye. "You're in Gryffindor. No offense, but you don't understand. The House has spoken; he won't defy us."

"You did this when he couldn't speak."

"Of course we did. Ced's too inclined to think it's all about him, even when he's being modest. We love him, but this wasn't about him. He was the catalyst, that's all. We're going to stop Umbridge because we can. Now go back to Gryffindor and wait for tomorrow."

On the way up and out, she paused in front of Lucy Diggory's painting. It was still covered -- formally now with a big, black cloth. But being well past curfew there was no one around to see, so Hermione lifted a corner to peek beneath, almost afraid to find her face still looking back.

But it wasn't, and she yanked the cloth off the painting, let it pool on the stone floor beneath. There were no dogs and deer now, and no god and goddess. Instead, a dead tree had become the focus, and the brown snake the Hunter had shot at a few panels earlier -- the one with the black bow-tie markings -- was twining its way up the trunk towards a hollow in the bole. Something was moving inside the hollow, but she couldn't see exactly what it was.

* * *

**Notes:** Thanks to Joia for helping me figure out a few things in this chapter. On Adrian Pucey's age, although I put him in Ginny's year in _Room With a Computer_, that was mostly for convenience. He's probably a year or two ahead of Harry. As for 'no confidence,' Hufflepuff and Justin, I was always intrigued by the idea that Justin was tagged for Eton, strongly suggesting an upper, upper crust background for him. His father might very well sit in Parliament. As for how Hufflepuff House runs, we know nothing about them, so it's all invention and I make no bones about that. :-) The dates used in Book 5 are all messed up from the actual 1995/96 calendar. I've mostly followed the Lexicon calendar, but it has days missing, etc., in order to match the book time-line and suit the story. Therefore, I don't feel too badly about returning Beltane to its actual _calendar_ date of a Wednesday. Not that most readers will be following along with the Lexicon calendar at elbow, but just to prevent confusion.


	32. No Confidence

Friday morning, Cedric was awake and feeling well enough to go to class. This attack had been severe in terms of pain, but had passed more quickly than some recently. He wasn't sure whether he preferred the pain, or being laid up for two or three days.

In any case, he didn't have an early class on Fridays, so he decided to wait in bed until the rest of the Sett emptied for breakfast, then get up and get ready.

But the Sett wasn't emptying. Instead, people zipped up and down the tunnels -- the hallways -- long after they should have disappeared to eat. Confused, he rose and headed out, still in pyjamas, to see what was up. "Hi, Ced!" and "Good morning, Cedric!" greeted him, and they all seemed rather unduly _cheerful_ -- which worried him. He didn't immediately spot his denmates, who'd risen early.

In the common room, he found a completely unexpected sight**: ** Ed, Peter, Scott, Susan Bones and Justin Finch-Fletchley in animated conversation with not only Professor Sprout but also Amelia Bones of the Ministry. Hearing him enter, they turned as one, waved or nodded and then turned back to whatever they were discussing. Sprout appeared troubled, but Madam Bones only thoughtful. He hobbled over in time to catch, "You're quite certain this is the course of action the House wishes to take?" from Sprout.

"What action?" he interrupted, frowning.

Madam Bones turned to him. "The no confidence vote?" At his dropped jaw, she glanced back to Ed, frowning. "_Cedric_ wasn't consulted? Then you do not, in fact, have a unanimous vote."

"Cedric was sort of _out_ of it," Scott replied smoothly. "We took the vote -- it was unanimous for all badgers in attendance.

"House rules require a unanimous vote of _all_ badgers in order to speak with Unanimous Voice -- "

"All badgers conscious and able to attend," Scott corrected with a charming smile that kept his words from being completely impertinent.

"What did you do?" Cedric demanded -- looking at Peter, who was most likely to give him a straight answer, or could be bullied into it.

But it was Susan who answered. "Ed called an Extraordinary Assembly and moved that the house use Unanimous Voice in order to issue a vote of no confidence against Umbridge."

"No confidence is a parliamentary action that essentially asks for a minister's resignation -- " Justin began but Cedric shook his head irritably.

"I know what it is. But why wasn't I told about this?"

"You were out of it, mate," Scott repeated cheerfully.

"I'm sure I wasn't out of it while you were researching the idea!"

Scott grinned widely, Ed blushed and Peter stared at his feet. "It's not about you," Peter said.

"Oh, yes it is. You knew I'd tell you not to pull anything like this! It's madness! The Ministry isn't going to listen -- "

"Actually," Madam Bones interrupted smoothly, "they have to. It's the unique privilege of our house. Each house was granted one special privilege or responsibility by their Founders. Salazar Slytherin created the castle's hidden tunnels and only the Head of Slytherin knows all of them. Rowena Ravenclaw was granted the right to acquire any book for the library, no matter how dangerous, as long as its access was controlled, so that no knowledge would be lost. Godric Gryffindor was charged with the school's protection, and the fact it's now Unplottable owes largely to the work of Gryffindor graduates. But Helga Hufflepuff was granted Unanimous Voice. When Hufflepuff speaks as one, their demands can't be dismissed."

Cedric continued to glare. He'd heard of Unanimous Voice only in passing but had never paid it much attention. "You're doing this because of what Umbridge did to me," he accused.

"That's what I said," Professor Sprout remarked, her face still clouded. "They insist otherwise."

Ed shrugged one shoulder artlessly. "Sorry, mate -- it's not. Well, it started there, but just as tosh one night. Me and Scott were sitting here whinging, and Justin overheard -- made some remark about wishing the school could vote no confidence on Umbridge, make her resign, and it sort of snowballed." He eyed Cedric. "So yeah -- not about you except indirectly. What she did to you was just the last straw. Woke us all up, I suppose you could say. But in the end, it's about stopping Umbridge because we're the only house who can."

Cedric was both mollified and a bit embarrassed. "I didn't mean to sound self-centered -- "

"S'all right," Ed replied and Susan just squeezed Cedric's upper arm above the grip of his crutch.

"Now that I'm awake though," Cedric said, "I do still have the right to cast a vote, don't I?"

"Not only do you have the right, but you must," Madam Bones told him. "I can't present the House's demands without a completely unanimous vote."

And Cedric felt . . . trapped. His vote could hardly be anonymous but he hadn't been party to the discussion. He didn't know how much his denmates had twisted arms. Then again -- and his current quandary aside -- an anonymous house vote meant that if a student didn't want to be herded, he or she wouldn't be. Despite the penchant for sticking together, one characteristic his house shared with Ravenclaw was a certain objectivity. Ravenclaw prized independence and intellectual honesty; Hufflepuff prized fairness. Even if some of the house had personal motivations, they weren't all likely to pass a motion based on revenge. He wasn't the least convinced that his denmates didn't have vengeance in mind, but Umbridge did need to be stopped. Was Ed right that they were the only house able to do it?

"Voting no confidence means we want her resignation, correct?" he asked.

"That's what it boils down to," Justin said. "It really means we're saying we have no confidence in her ability to lead the school, but in Parliament, when the responsible house -- the House of Commons usually -- votes no confidence, it results in a Prime Minister's resignation and a general election, like with Callaghan in the late '70s, or back before World War II, with MacDonald. So yeah, we're essentially saying we want her to resign."

"Fudge is going to see this as an attack on him."

Justin nodded. "He probably will -- and he should. It's his party, so to speak, that she's part of. We're not targeting him, though, just her."

"It takes a bit more to get rid of a Minister," Madam Bones put in. "But yes, this action will rebound on Fudge; his control of the Ministry has grown increasingly tenuous of late, and an event of this magnitude could call his own position into question. Cedric is quite correct to caution that he'll see it as an attack on his administration and thus may, in turn, propose a motion of confidence in Umbridge that, if passed, will automatically replace yours."

The rest of them exchanged glances. "So it all might not even count?" Ed asked. "Just mean nothing?"

Scott's eyes had narrowed. "You just said that Fudge _has_ to listen to Unanimous Voice."

"He has to _listen_, yes, but your Unanimous Voice simply proclaims no confidence. I want you to be aware that such a vote may not, in itself, be enough to force her to resign, not if Fudge can pass a counter-motion of confidence."

They all -- even Justin -- looked gobsmacked, and Cedric was at once unsurprised but annoyed too. "What would you suggest?" Susan asked before the boys went spare.

"That you prepare an alternative, in case her resignation isn't an option. This statement" -- she held up a parchment she'd been holding -- "gives a number of points where you think Umbridge has either gone too far, or has failed to fulfill her duty to oversee your education adequately. Your complaint about her refusal to allow practical spellwork in Defense Against the Dark Arts is a good one, as is your objection to her Inquisitorial Squad as it oversteps the bounds of student authority. So be ready to compromise. Fudge is very likely to propose a motion of confidence in Umbridge for the remainder of this school year -- he could argue it's too late to replace her. So prepare to negotiate for what they're willing to give you; that's the reality of politics. You almost never get everything you want, so you decide in advance what you can and can't do without."

Cedric was nodding, and slowly, reluctantly, the others joined in. "All right, fair enough," Ed said as Professor Sprout asked, "Amelia, what'll happen to the House as a result of this? I don't trust Umbridge not to take it out on them later if she stays here."

Madam Bones shrugged. "I'm sure she will in subtle ways, but she can't attack them directly for it, and may not consider it worth her while this late in the year to do much beyond the petty. To be frank, I doubt she'll be back next year whatever happens, and we're close enough to the end of the school year that she may decide it's best just to ride out her stint here as quietly as possible. Even if she isn't forced to resign, a vote of no confidence is extremely bad press and Fudge will encourage her to keep her nose down. As for you, Pomona, you can't be a part of this action. That's why I'm here. In fact, it's probably best if you go back to your office and stay out of the Great Hall entirely. The house head has to remain neutral."

Professor Sprout huffed, then peered into the faces of the rest of them. "You're all quite _certain_ you want to do this?"

"Yes, professor," Ed replied.

"Very well. I won't argue with the will of the House." And she turned to go, but not without throwing a glance or two over her shoulder.

Her reply made Cedric decide his own vote. It was the will of the House; he couldn't vote against it. "Madam Bones, if the House has already voted unanimously in favor of this, I won't dissent. But" -- he looked at his friends -- "I want it recorded that I didn't call this motion and wasn't even aware it was being done. I don't want people to think this comes from sour grapes on my part."

She nodded. "So noted." Turning to Ed, she said, "Summon the House. It's time to speak."

* * *

Although Hermione said nothing to anybody besides Harry and Ron about what she'd witnessed the night before, Hufflepuff's complete absence from breakfast the next morning was a significant clue that something was afoot.

At the head table, Umbridge frowned a great deal and called up members of her Inquisitorial Squad, who then disappeared from the Great Hall only to return five or ten minutes later, wearing baffled expressions. Not only was everyone from Hufflepuff absent from breakfast, but it seemed none of them had been seen since daybreak. "Dug in like badgers," Lee Jordan said, eying the empty table against the wall behind Gryffindor. "They won't come out till they're good and ready."

All Hogwarts could do was wait and see, so students lingered in the Great Hall long after they'd finished eating. Hermione wondered if their first period would be delayed as well. None of the teachers seemed to know any more than Umbridge, and Sprout -- the one who might have had an answer -- was equally absent.

In the last few minutes before first bell, the storm broke. The hall doors opened and Hufflepuff filed in, making two columns behind a figure in black robes wearing what appeared to be an archaic, Romanesque theater mask. She (Hermione knew it must be Madam Bones) carried a tall wooden staff with a carved badger atop, and she led them forward, seventh years immediately behind, then in year order down to the youngest. Professor Sprout wasn't present at all, and Cedric, Hermione noted, didn't march right up front but somewhere in the middle of the seventh years. Today, he'd cast himself as just another Hufflepuff, although he could never really go unnoticed. His height, his beauty and now, his handicap would always mark him. Aside from the thump-drag of his step, the house moved in silence, looking neither to the right nor left. It was . . . eerie, and not at all the image of Hufflepuff that Hogwarts had come to know and expect.

There was much murmuring, and at the head table, Umbridge surged to her feet, face red. "What is the meaning of this?" she demanded, high voice almost breaking from obvious anxiety. "Where have these students been all morning? It's almost time for class!"

Madam Bones behind her mask didn't immediately speak. Instead, she waited for the house members to peel off to either side of her, forming a line across the front of the Great Hall, facing the high table. When everyone had found a spot -- as silently as they'd entered -- Madam Bones struck her staff on the flagstones four times.

"I stand before you today not as an individual, but to speak for Hufflepuff House," Madam Bones said -- or really _intoned_. "The House has elected to invoke its ancient right of Unanimous Voice."

A flicker passed over Umbridge's face -- not-quite-surprise, annoyance, and a very real alarm. In the Great Hall behind, chatter broke out**:** "Unanimous Voice? What's Unanimous Voice?"

"Shhh!" Hermione hissed at those around her even as Madam Bones snapped the staff against the flagstones again like a judge's gavel. "Silence! By Hogwart's Charter of Foundation, Hufflepuff was granted the privilege and honor of being Hogwarts' conscience. When the House passes a motion by a unanimous vote, the school staff, Governors, and Ministry of Magic are bound by law to listen and comply unless compliance would either infringe the rights of other houses or interfere with the educational goals of the school."

By which Hermione supposed Hufflepuff couldn't just randomly elect not to attend classes anymore, or kick out Slytherin on their backsides.

Umbridge's eyes had narrowed. "It seems to me, Madam Bones -- and pardon me for calling you by name, but we all know who you are --" her smile turned positively feral, "but Hufflepuff is severely out of order. Educational Decree Number 24 prohibited any meeting of more than three students, and therefore, any motion passed at such a meeting cannot be valid. I do believe that a house meeting would qualify as more than three students."

She looked so smug, and Hermione had all but forgotten that decree. Madam Bones, however, had not. "The matter of Unanimous Voice is part of the school's original Charter. Educational Decrees are but addenda to that charter, and cannot supersede Charter rights unless the Charter itself were overturned. And that would require rather more legal process than whispering in a few ears at the Ministry, Madam Umbridge." Hermione didn't miss that Madam Bones _hadn'_t granted Umbridge the courtesy title of 'professor,' much less Headmistress. "In short, no decree heretofore passed may supersede the Charter rights of Hufflepuff House, nor outlaw any meeting called in order to exercise those rights. Their motion -- and their vote -- is quite legal."

Lips pursed, Umbridge said, "We'll see about that. I believe Hufflepuff has only 62 house points left? Let's begin by removing all 62 of those poi -- "

Madam Bones struck her staff four times on the flagstones and Umbridge stopped speaking in mid-word, eyes suddenly bugging as she clawed at her throat. "The Charter rights of the four houses are protected by magical contract," Madam Bones warned. "When you cease attempting to punish Hufflepuff for exercising their rights, you'll be able to breathe again."

As if unwilling to concede, Umbridge struggled to speak a moment or two more, then gave up. As soon as she stopped, she was able to gasp for air, and breathed deeply as she glared down from the high table at Madam Bones, who struck her staff again four times. "As the Voice of Hufflepuff, I affirm that the House has moved and voted, by anonymous and unanimous ballot, that they can no longer place confidence in the present Head of Hogwarts. They call for her immediate resignation and replacement."

Four beats of dead silence greeted that, then total uproar. Even Hermione, who'd known it was coming, experienced a little thrill of shock. Nearly everybody else seemed to be talking at once . . . except Hufflepuff. They made a wall of ominous black between the student tables and the head; not a single member of the House had so much as whispered to another since entering the doors. Chief among student exclamations were shouts of, "They can't do that!" or questions, "_Can_ they do that?" Umbridge herself merely looked thunderstruck. She must have expected them to ask for Cedric's reinstatement or similar.

"_Silence!_" came the amplified voice of Madam Bones and in a moment or three, the hall had settled down once more. Meanwhile, a whey-faced Umbridge plopped into the Head's throne, or perhaps collapsed there would be more honest.

"Students don't have the power to dismiss a Head!" she squealed. "That's an assault on proper discipline! Why, they could just . . . do whatever they wanted with that power!"

"But they don't," Madam Bones said quietly. "And they won't. That's why they were invested with it in the first place. Fairness and honesty are among Hufflepuff's principal attributes. In order to invoke Unanimous Voice, the entire house -- every member -- must affirm the motion. This is not a matter of majority or even two-thirds vote. It's _unanimous_. It requires that every member of Hufflepuff agree -- all, in this case, seventy-two of them."

Yet Hermione could see how Umbridge glared down at Cedric where he stood between Peter and Ed. "I find that hard to believe. Again Madam Bones, let's not play games. We both know this little stunt is the result of one trouble-making student's dissatisfaction with my recent decisions. Mr. Diggory does not run Hufflepuff, much less this school -- and I don't intend to let him."

"Madam Umbridge, while I overlooked your first violation of procedure, I cannot overlook a second. I am not here in any personal capacity. When you address me, you address not me, but the House. Please speak accordingly. As for the matter of Mr. Diggory, you're quite correct. He does not run Hufflepuff. If his vote did not overturn the House decision, he neither proposed this motion, nor was present at the original meeting, being temporarily incapacitated. An attempt to lay this decision at Mr. Diggory's feet is not only misplaced, but insults the House."

Umbridge laughed a little, more as a nervous response than in humor. "I'm not at all certain how I'm expected to reply to these demands, Madam . . . or rather, 'Voice of Hufflepuff.' We have a full school day ahead of us, and exams approaching for some of our students."

"You 'reply' by stepping down immediately from your position," Madam Bones said, "and surrendering authority to the deputy head until this matter is sorted out. In my capacity as Voice, I've already sent a summons to both Minister Fudge and the Head of the Governors, who should be here by noon. In the meantime, classes will continue as normal. This affects you, not the other teachers or students."

Madam Bones didn't even wait to see if Umbridge would comply, just snapped the staff end on the flagstones another four times and thus released, Hufflepuff students scattered, going to their table to grab rolls or anything else they could shove into pockets before shouldering book bags and heading out the doors to class as if nothing untoward had happened. It took the other Houses longer to recover -- and react. "Do you think they can do it?" Ron asked as he and Harry filed out with Hermione. "Make her quit?"

"I don't know," Hermione said, "but I do know Scott and Justin did their homework, and now they have Madam Bones helping them. If anybody in the Ministry knows the law, it's her. Whether or not we actually get rid of Umbridge" -- Hermione glanced back over her shoulder at the high table where Umbridge still sat, Madam Bones-in-mask still facing her -- "her power's taken a serious blow."

"Who'd've ever thought _Hufflepuff_ would be the ones, though," Seamus said from a little behind them. "Hufflepuff!"

Hermione recalled the things she'd learned from Cedric about his house. "They're tougher than you think . . . " she trailed off, then went on after a minute, "When you put them all together -- well, you saw them standing there."

"Yeah," Ron muttered, "that was just dead _scary_. You'd have to be a nutter to cross 'em." They'd arrived at Professor Binns' classroom, and conversation broke off.

It became apparent over the rest of the morning that Hufflepuff was not prepared to discuss their decision with others, although they insisted Cedric didn't lie behind it. Not only had he not been there, the Extraordinary Assembly had been called on purpose when he'd been unable to attend. Initial reluctance to believe in his innocence had changed by lunch, at least among Gryffindors and Ravenclaws, as well as by Malfoy's opponents in Slytherin. Blaise Zabini was heard to point out that an entire house -- even one like Hufflepuff -- would hardly rush like lemmings into the sea for the sake of a single seventh year.

At lunch, Professor Umbridge wasn't at the high table, nor was Madam Bones anywhere in evidence, and once again, the whole of Hufflepuff House had withdrawn to the cellar where they prepared to respond to the Minister and the Board of Governors. Virtually nothing happened that Friday afternoon as the rest of Hogwarts awaited the outcome of this unexpected clash of titans.

* * *

Madam Bones entered the Hufflepuff Common Room where most of the House had gathered, waiting. Many stood up and Cedric spun his chair around. Elevating a piece of parchment, Madam Bones took a spot in front of the fireplace to address the students. "Your counter-offer. As I warned, you didn't get everything you wanted, and it turned out more or less as I anticipated. Minister Fudge is unwilling to remove Professor Umbridge."

This was greeted by moans and hisses and even some swearing. Madam Bones ignored it to continue, "Cornelius made exactly the argument I expected -- it's too late in the year to replace her. Not true, but the Governors weren't inclined to argue with him. That said, your complaints didn't go unheeded. They're willing to dissolve her Inquisitorial Squad and agree it undermines the current student officers. They're also -- interestingly -- willing to repeal Educational Decree Number 26, as it violates teachers' freedom of speech; that's not as useful as getting rid of 24 or 25, but it could have symbolic value. Minister Fudge is not, however, willing to permit spellwork in Defense Against the Dark Arts despite some rather vigorous arguments from some Governors, Rufus Scrimgeour not least. Minister Fudge was more adamant about that than I anticipated, but before I return to the matter, I should present the last part of their counter-offer.

"They're willing to reinstate Mr. Diggory as Head Boy." She held up his badge, which winked in the torchlight. Other students murmured in delight or approval but Cedric just frowned, gut lurching. "They agree that his dismissal was hasty and questionable, and over a matter that has not, as it turns out, proved true. The Governors contacted your father, Cedric, and although the isolation period isn't over, it's been 8 out of 10 days, and your raccoon shows no signs of being rabid. They agree the entire incident appears fishy. So you may have your position back."

"No."

His answer was out almost before he realized he'd spoken, and everyone else in the room gaped at him. "No," he reiterated. "It's a bribe. They still assume this is about me. We can't let them make this about me. I don't want the position back -- not like this."

"But Cedric -- !" and "You should take it, mate!" and "You're the rightful Head Boy!" exploded from other throats, but Madam Bones just gave him a small nod of approval.

"A wise decision," she said, "and not one I could make for you." Although she didn't speak loudly, it settled everyone down. "Mr. Diggory's assessment is correct. It is a bribe, and Fudge's attempt to reduce Hufflepuff's objections to sour grapes regarding Mr. Diggory's dismissal." She looked around at all of them. "So as unjust as it may have been, yes, I think it wise to refuse the offer. You must keep this about the school, and your education."

Cedric breathed out. It hurt to give up the Head Boyship for a second time, but he knew it was the right thing to do. "So does this give us room to ask for something else?"

Her lips curled up. "It may indeed. I had to know how you'd respond to their offer before I returned to Minister Fudge's refusal to allow spellwork in Defense Against the Dark Arts."

"You think he might change his mind?" Ed asked.

"Not willingly, but that doesn't mean he can't be backed into doing so." Madam Bones removed her monocle, folding it and putting it in a pocket of her robes. "Most adults in the Wizarding World -- and everybody in the Ministry -- have suffered through OWLs and NEWTs. We all remember the difficulty of practical exams. Umbridge's insistence that one can learn the theory, then perform adequately at an exam without practice is complete rubbish -- and most people would recognize as much. _But_ most people don't know that's what she's told her students. It's all been passed over in the press. I didn't know it myself until I spoke with Susan over the Christmas holidays. I've since spoken to several other parents and relatives and none of them are happy either, but also aren't sure what to do about it.

"Hufflepuff has the chance to make Madam Umbridge's claims public. If you do, you'll find you have a wide base of popular support -- and not just among parents. It wasn't only Minister Fudge and the Governors who arrived at noon today. Reporters from _The Daily Prophet_ and _WWN_ are here, as well as from _Transfiguration Today_ and _Witch Weekly_ -- and I suspect others have smelled blood in the water by now and arrived, too. Fudge refused them admittance to the castle grounds, unsurprisingly -- but they're gathered just beyond the gate. Might I suggest Hufflepuff send representatives to talk to them? It's in Minister Fudge's best interest to conclude this matter quickly and quietly. But it's not in yours. It's Friday; you have the weekend. Use it."

"So what do we tell Fudge and the Governors?" Scott asked. "Aren't they waiting?"

"For now, I suggest you let them wait a bit. Prepare a statement that explains Unanimous Voice and include your original objections. Also include Fudge's counterproposal but make it clear that Hufflepuff does not intend to accept Mr. Diggory's reinstatement, as it won't solve the problem of Umbridge's unsuitability as a teacher and Head. Stick to your guns about your need for pragmatic application in order to pass your _exams_. Take that statement to the press outside the gates as I return to Fudge and the Governors with word that Hufflepuff Houses needs time to consider and will return a formal reply tomorrow. By morning, _The Prophet_ and _WWN_ will have the whole story front and center, and perhaps others will as well. Publicity will give you a better negotiating position."

"Fudge has used the press as a weapon all year," Justin said quietly. "You're suggesting we use it against him now?"

Madam Bones nodded.

"Then we'd better get cracking," Ed said. "If we can get something written quickly, it might make _The Evening Prophet_. Scott, have you still got a copy of our original statement?" Scott dug in his robes and pulled out a roll, waving it. "You want to write this then?" Ed asked.

"No, Cedric should," Scott replied without hesitation, which got nods and murmurs of assent.

"I can't do this!" Cedric said, surprised. "I'm the one person who _shouldn't_ do this!"

"You shouldn't be the one to talk to the press," Susan corrected. "That doesn't mean you shouldn't be the one to write the statement. You're the cleverest person in our House, Ced."

"You write it," Ernie agreed, "and we'll vote on it."

Cedric looked around him. Heads were nodding.

"How fast can you do it, mate?" Ed asked.

Frowning, Cedric ran a hand into his hair. "Er, give me an hour? Maybe a bit more?" He looked at Madam Bones. "How long should this be?"

"Not very. What you prepare shouldn't be more than seven to eight inches on parchment -- and that may be rather long. Be succinct. Did anybody act as Recorder for the original meeting?"

"I did," Peter replied.

"Give your minutes to Mr. Diggory then."

"Are we done?" one of the third years ventured to ask. "Can we go to lunch now?"

"I think it's best if we stay in here," Ed replied, glancing around. "We'll send the prefects to the kitchens to ask the house-elves to give us food. I don't want anybody else out of the cellar till we're ready to speak again."

And so the house settled down once more to wait while Ernie and Hannah along with Desdemona Reilly and Benjamin Cadwallader trooped to the kitchens next door, and Cedric retired to his room, followed by Peter, as well as Justin and Scott as the original architects of the plot. Ten minutes later, however, Cedric found himself silently wishing for Hermione's cool head and verbal talents. Justin buried himself in confusing legal terminology, Peter waffled, and Scott went right for the throat with little finesse. Nonetheless, and after a contentious hour, they had a statement cobbled together that Cedric didn't think sounded too ridiculous. They brought it out for Madam Bones to hear and gathered together in a corner of the common room along with Ed and Susan while Cedric read it.

_"On the evening of the 2nd of May, Hufflepuff House convened an Extraordinary Assembly in order to put forward a motion of no confidence in the leadership of Dolores Umbridge, High Inquisitor and Headmistress of Hogwarts, appointed by Minister Cornelius Fudge. This motion of no confidence was adopted unanimously by all 72 members of the House, giving it the authority of Unanimous Voice. Hogwarts' Charter of Foundation grants a special legislative force to any declarations made by the House when Unanimous Voice is invoked. Employed only in extraordinary circumstances, Unanimous Voice has been used but 49 times in Hogwarts entire history. Its last use was in 1854, when the Headmaster of Hogwarts wanted to expel any Muggle-born student who elected to join the army in order to fight the Crimean War -- "_

"Mr. Diggory," Madam Bones interrupted gently, "while I appreciate your desire to explain exactly what Unanimous Voice is, I don't think a history lesson is necessary at the moment."

She was smiling but the others tittered and Ed shoved at him good naturedly. "Bloody swot."

"I told him he didn't need it," Scott said as Cedric -- face flaming -- drew his wand over the lines on the parchment, erasing them, then cleared his throat.

"All right, um, yeah, picking up from '. . . when Unanimous Voice has been invoked.' _Since her arrival at Hogwarts at the beginning of this school year, Professor Umbridge has instituted a succession of changes that Hufflepuff House believes violates student rights, compromises traditional student offices, and fails in the education of Hogwarts students, leaving them inadequately prepared for their Public Exams._

_"Among her more serious offenses is the creation of an 'Inquisitorial Squad' made up of students she handpicked whose authority supersedes all other offices and includes the ability to take house points from other students -- something no student office has ever allowed, even that of Head Boy and Girl. Furthermore, all members of this Inquisitorial Squad were drawn from only one house, Slytherin. The dubiousness of allowing students to remove points was immediately apparent as within less than a week, the points of all three other Houses had been reduced to -- "_

"Mr. Diggory," Madam Bones interrupted again. Her grin was a bit more obvious this time. "You're soapboxing."

"But it's true!" Scott protested before Cedric could.

"No doubt. It's also the kind of thing you save for illustration of the problem when asked about it. It doesn't need to be in your original statement. Leave it at the members of the squad being from one house, Slytherin. That's all you need to say. Slytherin's reputation for self-protection and self-advocacy is well known."

Sighing, Cedric erased the last sentence and continued, _"Perhaps most disturbing of all has been her approach to teaching Defense Against the Dark Arts, the position for which she was originally appointed. Or rather, her __failure__ to teach Defense Against the Dark Arts. From her selection of a textbook published 21 years ago and never revised, to her insistence that students can perform spells without any practice as long as they learn the theory, Hogwarts students now find themselves unprepared for their Public Exams, as well as for the rising danger beyond --"_

"Delete that last," Madam Bones interrupted for a third time. "You absolutely do not want to turn this into a political tangle with Fudge about the threat of He Who Must Not Be Named." She held up a hand before any of them could protest. "No, _stick to the exams_ -- something that is _not_ a current political hot topic. Remember, Minister Fudge will be looking for any point on which to accuse you of ulterior motives."

So Cedric removed the end of the line, and went on, _"Madam Umbridge has not allowed students to draw a wand in class all year, and lessons have consisted of silent reading with no practical application, nor even classroom discussion of the theory. Furthermore, in recent months, her duties as Ministry-appointed High Inquisitor 'observing' other teachers have led her to cancel class after class. First and second years have not had a class in Defense Against the Dark Arts since late February, and third years have not had one since the end of March. Classes for fourth years and up have been intermittent. Students might learn more from independent reading than from professor Umbridge. Unfortunately, access to library books about Defense Against the Dark Arts has been restricted ever since Professor Umbridge took over as Headmistress, and fifth and seventh year students who attempted to study for Public Exams over Easter Holidays were not permitted access to the very texts they would need in order to prepare for those exams. With only four weeks until tests, anxiety among fifth and seventh years is understandably high._

_"For these reasons and more, Hufflepuff House voted no confidence, and asked for Professor Umbridge's resignation. Their request was refused by Minister Fudge and the Governors, who submitted a counterproposal. If the Minister and Governors did agree to abolish the Inquisitorial Squad, they did not address the more deeply troubling problem of inadequate education. Instead they offered to reinstate Cedric Diggory as Head Boy after he was removed from office due to accusations that have since proven to be false."_

It felt quite strange, Cedric thought, not only to write about himself in the third person, but to read it aloud to others. Yet no one giggled or interrupted.

_"But reappointing Mr. Diggory as Head Boy will not prepare students any better for their Public Exams in Defense Against the Dark Arts, and so we refuse the offer. Who occupies the position of Head Boy is not the source of concern."_

"Excellent and succinct," Madam Bones interrupted softly, watching him through half-hooded eyes. "You want to point out the absurdity of the counterproposal without dwelling on it."

Cedric nodded. _"Hufflepuff House continues to insist that spellwork be permitted in Defense Against the Dark Arts, and time given to practice spells before students are expected to perform them on exam day. The House also demands that Professor Umbridge actually __hold__ the classes she was hired to teach, instead of canceling them in favor of looking over the shoulders of other teachers with more classroom experience than she has."_

Finished, he lowered the parchment, and Madam Bones nodded to him. "That last bit was a little pointed, but dry enough that I think you can get away with it, and I suspect the whole of it is closer to ten inches than eight, much less seven." Cedric blushed because that was true. It was, in fact, eleven inches, and he wrote small. Brevity had never been his strong suit. "But you four did a good job of keeping the focus on her failure as a teacher, which is the most damning part of your indictment. It also undercuts one of Fudge's key arguments for appointing Umbridge as High Inquisitor in the first place -- to remove incompetent teachers at Hogwarts. What you've just shown is that she's more incompetent than anybody she's here to remove, which calls into question the entire appointment. Of course Fudge's real reason for sending her stems from his own paranoia, but he hasn't lost his head so much as to not see that admitting it would amount to career suicide. So you've pinned him between a rock and a hard place."

"He'll have to back down?" Justin asked.

"I think he will, or he'll face a freight of angry letters and howlers from parents and concerned others. More to the point, he'll have to publicly rebuke her, and that's likely to drive a wedge between the two of them."

"She believes she made him, doesn't she?" Cedric asked, remembering what his mother had told him about Umbridge. "She's his éminence grise."

"That's exactly right. But the nature of politics is that to the one _in_ power, everybody else is expendable if they become a political liability. And Hufflepuff House has just made Umbridge a political liability." She grinned at them. "You've accomplished what perhaps half the Ministry has been trying to do for the past ten years. Well done!"

* * *

**High Inquisitor Put on Trial!**

_In a thoroughly unexpected move, Hufflepuff House -- speaking with her historic right of Unanimous Voice -- has issued a vote of no confidence in Dolores Umbridge, former under-secretary to Minister Fudge and current Headmistress and High Inquisitor of Hogwarts ..._

It was with immense satisfaction that Hermione read Saturday morning's front-page article in _The Daily Prophet_. Umbridge herself was absent from breakfast and nobody saw her until noon, when copies of the article had appeared all over the castle, stuck to hallway walls, classroom doors, and wallpapering Umbridge's own office door from top to bottom. Hufflepuff had finally emerged from their self-imposed isolation after sending a morning message to Minister Fudge with alternative demands of their own. Everywhere they went, other students patted their backs and shook their hands. Even first years were treated with unusual respect.

And Lucy Diggory's painting had finally revealed what was hiding in the dead tree bole. Badgers. The bow-tie snake had reached the tree hollow only to be confronted by the growling, hissing combined fury of sable-striped badgers protecting their sett. Allegorical it might be, but nobody missed the point.

The next morning's headline read**:**

**Fudge Claims Confidence in Hogwarts' Head**

_Despite rising doubt in the Wizarding World about Minister Fudge's appointment of Dolores Umbridge as Headmistress of Hogwarts, the Minister continues to express his confidence in her ability to direct the school, at least until the end of the school year. "Of course, everything will be up for review in June, but Madam Umbridge was always intended as an interim appointment while we cleaned up the problems arising from Dumbledore's Headship."_

_After recent statements issued by Hufflepuff House, however, it seems as if "problems" would be no less an accurate assessment of Umbridge's Headship ..._

"It looks as if _The Prophet_ is no longer Fudge's mouthpiece," Hermione said, passing the paper to Harry.

"Fair-weather friends, I suppose," Harry replied, skimming the article. "What was it Rita Skeeter told you? They want to sell papers?"

"I still can't believe _Hufflepuff_ put Umbridge on notice," Seamus said from across the table as he poured milk on his cornflakes.

Hermione didn't reply, just smiled to herself.

"As long as Hufflepuff puts Slytherin on notice next Saturday," Ron said, "we might still have a chance at the House Cup, if we beat Ravenclaw later."

Looking up over the rim of her juice glass, Hermione resisted rolling her eyes. "At a time like this, you're worrying about _Quidditch_?"

Ron blinked. "Well, yeah. Of course."

"As I recall," Hermione pointed out, "Hufflepuff defeated Ravenclaw, so if they win next Saturday, I do believe _they_ take the House Cup."

"But that was overturned; officially Ravenclaw beat them. So if they beat Slytherin, who beat us, then we beat Ravenclaw, who beat them, then yeah -- we could still take the Cup."

Hermione breathed out in exasperation. "Boys."

"What about us?" asked a familiar voice behind her.

Hermione tilted her head back to look at him upside down, and Harry turned. "Hullo, Ced. Just the usual. We're talking Quidditch; Hermione's complaining."

Cedric grinned. "She does that a lot, doesn't she?"

Hermione might have retorted, but he was grinning down at her with that completely irresistible smile of his. "I came," he said, "to let you know that Fudge has finally returned a new response, so we're headed back to the Sett."

"Good news or bad?" Harry asked.

"Dunno yet," Cedric replied. "I'll let you know as soon as I know."

By evening, the news had spread**:** Fudge had backed down, and wands would be out in Defense Against the Dark Arts on Monday. The silver "I"s denoting the Inquisitorial Squad had already disappeared from robes, and if Umbridge attended dinner Sunday evening, her expression was hard and resentful, especially when she turned it on Hufflepuff Table.

Things were quiet all that week. Umbridge appeared to be waiting for the smoke to clear, and now that they had what they wanted, Hufflepuff settled back cautiously as shenanigans among students tapered off. Only Peeves continued unabated with pranks. On Wednesday, Cedric slipped Hermione a note after dinner. It read: _Meet me in the Room of Requirement in half an hour. Bring the map and cloak._

She turned to glare at him but he ignored her as he rolled out of the Great Hall in his chair. She couldn't believe he wanted to run risks _now_.

But she had to admit he'd timed it well. Umbridge was busy that evening, and it was early enough that the sun was still up, the weather fair, and students were scattered all around the castle grounds, both outside and in. If she and Cedric disappeared for an hour, it wasn't likely to be noticed.

When she arrived in the Room of Requirement, she found him already waiting in the big bed with the red satin sheets, candles burning. Smiling, he looked up at her as she pulled off the cloak. She tried to glare back but candlelight falling on his hair and bare skin turned him to bronze and stole her breath. She crossed to the bed and he lifted himself on one arm to reach out and unbutton her robes. Undressing quickly, she slid in beside him. "We're going to do it right this time," he whispered to her, pulling her close, bare skin to bare skin.

"Did you remember your spell?" she asked, teasing.

"Yes, I did, Miss Bossy."

They took their time. He kissed her mouth, her brow, her jaw, her throat, her shoulder, her breasts, her belly, her hip, her thighs. His lips were warm, his tongue wet on her hot skin. She stroked every inch of him that she could reach, the pads of her fingers teasing sensitive flesh on his nipples, inside his elbows, and over his scrotum, but avoiding his erection. "Tease," he muttered. She answered by dragging her hair across his chest and belly and groin, then enveloping his cock in her mouth when he wasn't expecting it. He shouted, and she drew back to suckle and lick all around the head while he squirmed, lips drawn back from gritted teeth.

She finally pulled away and he pushed her onto her back, spreading her knees so his fingers could massage her clit in a circular motion while he sucked at her left breast. Then she felt him shift, pushing down one leg so he could climb between. "Help me a little here," he asked, mouth lifting from her. "Need to prop myself up on both arms."

She scooted down a bit and reached for his cock, angling it and taking a deep breath. It hadn't hurt that much last time; she could do this. Guiding him to the right spot, she felt him shove forward enough to get partway inside. It burned and she hissed. "Relax, poppet."

"I'm trying."

He pushed in the rest of the way, collapsing on her and holding very still. She wrapped her legs around his hips and took more deep breaths. After a minute, the burning receded. It still wasn't comfortable, but it wasn't starkly painful, either. "All right, Granger?" he asked after a moment.

"Yeah."

Raising up again, he began to move. It remained uncomfortable but there was something there, some tickle . . . or maybe it was just the emotional impact of feeling him inside her and hearing him pant in pleasure. She stroked his hips and shoulder blades and spine, raising her face a little to kiss him, tongue sliding along tongue. He licked her mouth mindlessly, his focus clearly not on what his upper body was doing. She doubted he'd last long, no matter how slow he was trying to go, and sure enough he was finished in six thrusts, collapsing on her again while she wrapped him up in her arms and legs.

They stayed that way a while until he became too heavy for her to bear, then he rolled sideways, using leverage to take her with him and put her on top, sheets twisted around them. Surprised, she laughed. He was strong. "Your turn," he whispered, right hand sliding over her stomach and into her pubic hair, fingers finding the right spot inside folds while his left drew her down until he could latch onto her breast. It didn't take her long then either, grinding against his hand, and she shrieked when she came.

A bit to her surprise, she felt him maneuver her hips until his cockhead pressed against her entry once more. "Hard _again_?" she whispered, still panting.

"Watching you does that to me," he whispered back, pulling her to him to suck at her lower lip.

The second time he entered her, it didn't hurt as much. It still didn't feel good, but it didn't hurt. She was relaxed enough to accept him, and he wasn't so excited that he climaxed in less than a minute. It let them find a rhythm, her hands braced on his shoulders, his on her hips. There was definitely something happening inside her now, a teasing friction as he slid in and out, in and out, building up. She could feel her muscles clenching every time his pubic bone hit her just right, and she squeezed her eyes shut, rocking on him. "Faster," he urged, hands sliding from her hips to her breasts, fingers stroking, pulling, and rubbing her nipples as she sped up. It still felt raw, but also good as his fingers tweaked her and his cock stroked a spot inside, driving her higher. Could a person come twice in a row? She'd felt as if she were still on a plateau when they'd started, and now she was rising again.

He came first, shouting, back arching. She wasn't there yet, but felt close, and kept pounding down on him even after he'd softened and slipped out. It took his hand to bring her off a second time, less sharp but more lasting. Then they giggled and snuggled. "Better than the cupboard, Granger?" he asked her.

"Definitely better than the cupboard."

Tucking her head under his chin, he stroked her sweaty back with both hands. "I think we're starting to get the hang of this business. Need more practice, though."

Lifting her head, she considered him with narrowed eyes. "Any excuse, is it?"

"What? You didn't enjoy it?" He was laughing at her. "And here I thought I was improving my performance."

She huffed. "We're not in the circus, Cedric. It's not a _show_." She settled her head back down against his chest. "But I'm not opposed to a bit more practice. We have to be _careful_, though."

"Very careful," he agreed.

* * *

**Notes:** On Hogwarts enrollment and House numbers, I tend to lower estimates rather than higher. It seems that only 4-6 students of each gender (give or take) are sorted into a House per year, and while it's possible that we just aren't told about others, I suspect there _are_ only those 4-6. That would mean there are somewhere between 60-80 students per house. This makes comprehensible JKR's explanation that there are no Wizarding colleges (beyond discipline- or trade-specific ones for Aurors, et al.) because there aren't enough Wizards. If Hogwarts really had a couple thousand students, then a 4-year college would be viable, but if Hogwarts is turning out only 8-12 graduates per house, and assuming that not all of those would have an interest in higher education, then a Wizarding College does, indeed, seem less tenable.


	33. The Journal

Success in one arena carried Hufflepuff through their last Quidditch match of the year on Saturday. They didn't simply beat Slytherin, they crushed them by 160 points. Hufflepuff's Golden Trio of Chasers proved to be unstoppable, and Summerby caught the Snitch for the first time all season, right in front of Malfoy's broom-end. Umbridge didn't even try to intervene, still lying low after the _Prophet_ articles. She might have retained her position, but it remained precarious. When she moved against the students again (and Hermione had no doubt that she would), it would be on something incontrovertible.

The celebrations that followed involved the whole castle, except for Slytherin, and Cedric's failure to unite the Houses was never more visible. Instead of four standing together, it was three against one. But that Saturday, Hermione wasn't really worrying about it, and neither was Cedric. They used the chaos of parties to steal an hour together, and were back in their common rooms before anybody much missed them. Hermione knew they were playing with fire, but Cedric was happy, and the curse wasn't flaring up despite approaching exams. (That she enjoyed their sex too wasn't something she dwelt on; it was easier to justify by pointing to his health.)

Monday turned out to be no less exciting than Saturday for Hufflepuff. At breakfast, Ed Carpenter received an owl post from none other than Philbert Deverill, manager of Puddlemere United in York, where Ed was from -- and where Oliver Wood had been hired right out of Hogwarts for the reserve team.

It was a contract offer. Reserve Chaser. Apparently Deverill had been at the game in disguise on Saturday, and a former Badger himself, he'd also heard who'd called the Extraordinary Assembly and issued the motion against Umbridge. Perhaps the original idea had been Scott's, but Ed's name was formally attached and the letter from Deverill said**:** _"We could use fresh blood who knows how to work with a team to get things done."_

And so Ed, whose prospects after school had looked the most bleak, was the first seventh year to get a job offer. Cedric appeared delighted when Hermione saw him at morning break. "It's about time somebody recognized what he can do," he told her.

"You're not jealous?" she asked.

His expression was genuinely shocked. "Why would I be jealous? He's worth his weight in gold. This has been a fantastic year for Ed. He didn't even think he could _be_ Captain at the beginning, and now? People are finally taking him seriously, you know?"

She wasn't sure why she felt so defensive on Cedric's behalf, but it seemed as if Ed were reaping the rewards for something Cedric had originally set up. "You were supposed to be Captain this year, and the composition of the team was your work."

"Well it's a good thing I wasn't Captain then, isn't it?" He frowned at her, somewhere between puzzled and irritated. "Granger, Ed's been on the Hufflepuff team longer than me. And yeah, so I put a team together two years ago, but it's not the same team we've got this year. Ed ran try-outs, and Ed's the one who coached them all year. It's his success, not mine." His frown deepened and his voice grew quiet. "Ed doesn't have a lot of options, career-wise, but he's truly a great Chaser, a great athlete. He deserves this. We're happy for him. _I'm_ happy for him."

And that, she thought, was the difference between Hufflepuff and Gryffindor. When Wood had been signed by the same team two years prior, Gryffindor had cheered, but there had been a bit of jealous muttering too. Yet when Ed's contract had been held aloft by Zacharias Smith, the whole table had erupted, and no one had said a bad word about it even behind Ed's back. The success of one was the success of all.

By Monday night, however, Cedric's mood had changed. When Hermione met him in the library after dinner, the first thing he said was, "You didn't accidentally pick up my journal with your books, did you?"

Surprised, she shook her head, but pulled her books out of her bag anyway, just to check. There as no little black journal. "When did you see it last?"

"Er, Saturday? I don't write in it all the time, you know."

She did know. Sometimes he seemed to write in it frequently, and at other times, he ignored it for weeks. "I thought you were carrying it with you?"

"I have been, but in the Sett, it's not so critical."

She looked up at him. "Cedric -- you haven't left it in your room, have you?"

"Once or twice." He sounded defensive. "It's not as if just anybody can wander in there. If Umbridge were to, somebody would've seen her."

"Not if she went while we were all in classes! Or at the game on Saturday! You said you haven't seen it since Saturday and I'm sure every Hufflepuff was in the stadium that day."

He was frowning. "I'm pretty sure I had it with me. Well, I think I did."

Pulling at her hair, she sank down in a seat at their usual table and stared at the tabletop. "What's in that journal?"

He motioned out a seat and sat down across from her. "Nothing about the Order," he said softly. "I told you that before. Or about the D.A., except allusions. It's, er, personal stuff."

He was turning red, and when he said 'personal,' she wondered just what he meant by that. "How 'personal'?"

He glanced up at her. "It's a _journal_. What do you think? It's about me. But Remus put that spell on it. It's Sealed. I just need to find out what happened to it so I can get it back."

Breathing out, Hermione felt a bit better for the reminder. Remus Lupin was no slouch as a wizard, and he'd said he was especially good at sealing spells. Even if it should turn out that Umbridge _had_ taken the journal, it wouldn't do her any good if she couldn't open it. And even if by some chance she did manage to get it open, it didn't sound as if it had much incriminating. Umbridge assumed it contained secrets about Dumbledore, but a journal full of Cedric's personal musings wouldn't be any political use to her, even if it might embarrass him to know somebody had read them. "I'm sure we'll find it. We just need to backtrack. Maybe if you go to the last place you remember for certain that you had it, you'll remember what you did with it after that."

He nodded. "That's a good idea. I was in my room." He picked up the book bag he hadn't even opened and slung it over his shoulder, getting back to his feet on the crutches. "I'll go try to sort it out. You stay here and study, right?"

She nodded, as she couldn't go into the Sett with him anyway.

But the journal didn't turn up, and Hermione feared that breakfast on Tuesday might bring a repeat of that awful morning Umbridge had taunted Cedric with Esiban. But nothing untoward occurred, no accusations were made against Cedric, and no gloating glances came from the head table. Umbridge barely even looked at him.

Hermione debated whether to say anything to Harry and Ron about the missing journal. It didn't seem that significant, and they couldn't do much about it anyway, but in the end, she told them. "So what's in it?" Ron wanted to know.

"Just personal things, he said -- about being on the crutches and such."

"Nothing about the Order?" Ron whispered.

"Or Snuffles?" Harry added.

"I didn't ask about Snuffles in particular, but no, I don't think so. And nothing about the Order, or the D.A."

"We'll keep an eye out for it," Harry said, "but you know, if Umbridge does have it, it's probably in her office. Maybe I could sneak in -- "

"Harry, no," Hermione said, grabbing his arm. "If she finds you in there -- "

"I've got the cloak."

"Even so. It's not worth the risk. Not for this. Umbridge is looking for something she can use for political purposes -- prove that Cedric, or you, are in league with Dumbledore against Minister Fudge. His diary isn't going to provide that even if she does have it and gets it open -- which I doubt if Remus Lupin Sealed it shut."

But Ron was frowning. "Just because it's Sealed doesn't mean it's not breakable," he said.

"Not by Umbridge," Hermione sniffed.

"Well, no, probably not," Ron agreed. "It's pretty high level magic, but that's what curse breakers do. It's not just curses; it's a lot of things. They specialize in opening what can't be opened."

Hermione frowned. "Still, it's just a journal. He'll be embarrassed if it happens, but it's not the end of the world."

* * *

"If I could just get into Umbridge's office," Cedric said, running a hand into his hair where he sat in his wheelchair in the Hufflepuff common room. He'd told his denmates about the missing journal. "If I could get in there, I could get it back. She could hardly accuse anybody of stealing it back if she stole it in the first place."

"What if she doesn't have it, though?" Peter asked.

"I can't figure out where else it _went_. I kept it with me all the time -- or it was in our room. And I trust none of you lot took it."

The other three shook their heads. "Even if we had," Scott said, "the joke'd be over by now, mate."

"Maybe it fell out of your pocket?" Ed suggested. "Somebody picked it up? If they can't open it, they wouldn't know it's yours. You should ask Sprout. Not Umbridge, obviously, but Sprout could ask around in case it got turned in. That's a lot less risky than breaking into Umbridge's office."

Cedric nodded even as he felt a hand on his shoulder and glanced around. It was Rose Zeller; the girl was so small her head barely topped his even when he was sitting down. "I might be able to get into her office," she said.

Cedric turned his chair to look at her and his denmates had all leaned forward. "How could _you_ get into her office?" Peter asked, unconsciously arrogant. "You're just a first year."

"It's an old Jewish magic -- thought travel. Some of the Prophets had it -- Isaiah, Ezekiel. Not everybody can do it, but I can. It's a bit risky -- "

Cedric was shaking his head. "You shouldn't do something that might hurt you, Rose."

Her small hand squeezed his shoulder. "It's not _that_ dangerous. And you once took a risk for me." She gave a decisive nod. "I'd like to do this for you."

"Could Umbridge spot you?" Scott asked, "Doing this 'thought' travel?"

Rose shook her head. "I could stand right beside her and she wouldn't see me unless she knew how to look."

Cedric glanced at his denmates, then back to Rose. "To do it, what would you need?"

Twenty minutes later, Rose was stretched out on a couch in the common room, a thorough description of the journal in her mind. In her right hand, she clutched a Star of David, and in the left a pentagram -- the Seal of Solomon -- to protect her on her journey. She wore a number of other amulets that she called Qemeot about her neck and brow.

She gave Cedric a special knife made of silver that had Hebrew writing on it. "If I'm not back in an hour, cut my left hand with this and put the Seal in the blood. It'll call me back. I shouldn't need more than an hour." He nodded, although the idea of blood magic troubled him.

There was nothing to do then but wait. Rose prayed briefly in Hebrew, then fell silent as if she'd fallen asleep. "I think she's gone," Peter muttered and Cedric pulled out his pocket watch, checking the time.

Minutes ticked by as the common room slowly filled with students come to watch while one of their own walked outside her body for the sake of another. And maybe they were all _goyim_, but they'd bring Rose back if they needed to.

According to Cedric's watch, twenty-three minutes passed before the little body on the couch gasped and her back arched, then blue eyes opened. She looked up at Cedric. "She might have something. There's a file on her desk -- left-hand side, at the top of the middle pile -- that has your name on it. It's a bit, well, bulky. But I've no idea what's in it. Thought travel only lets me observe, not move things around."

Cedric glanced up at Scott, Peter and Ed. "I've got to get that file." They just nodded.

Getting into Umbridge's office physically, however, proved more tricky. Cedric talked to Harry. "You need my cloak?" Harry asked.

"I need it to sneak into Umbridge's office, yeah. She has my journal in a file on her desk. Well, we think she does."

Harry frowned. "Look, I hate to point this out, Ced, but you can't _sneak_ anywhere -- you sound like a rusty tractor. I'll do it. Just tell me where the file is."

"I can't let you do that! It's not your problem -- "

"You're my friend," Harry said, cutting him off. "And it's my cloak. How long could it take? Five minutes?"

"You have to get in the door first," Peter pointed out. "It might take longer to get in the door than to find the file."

Harry shook his head. "Let me take care of that. I have something that'll open the door."

"You do?" Cedric asked.

"I -- just trust me, all right? Let me talk to that first year, find out where the file is, then get somebody to stage a diversion. I'll be in and out before you know it."

Cedric shifted weight onto one crutch and gripped Harry's shoulder with his free hand. "I owe you for this."

The boy just shrugged. "I'm not keeping a tally, all right? Just . . . keep an eye out, yeah?"

"We will."

And so it was arranged. Zacharias Smith and Lee Jordan let off some of Fred and George's leftover fireworks in a far tower, and it had been so long since there'd been trouble, a startled Umbridge hurried off to see what had happened. Meanwhile, Ed, Scott and Peter together with Ron and Hermione kept an eye out while an invisible Harry broke into Umbridge's office. Unable to move in a hurry, Cedric had to wait downstairs in Flitwick's classroom, and he hated that his friends were taking risks for his sake while he sat around and did nothing.

Harry required more than five minutes, and the expression his face wore when he arrived in the classroom after told the story. "It's not there. I searched the whole desktop and every drawer. I found a file with your name on it, but no journal in it."

Cedric put his head in his hands. "Bloody hell."

"I just need more time to look -- "

"No," Cedric told him, lifting his face again. "People have risked enough for my sake. Thank you, but no. I just hope this means she hasn't got it."

* * *

Hermione knew Cedric well enough to know there was more to his diary than he was admitting. As the likelihood had increased that the journal had been taken, not merely lost, his panic had risen proportionally, so on Wednesday evening after the unsuccessful attempt to recover it that afternoon, she confronted him in the library. Casting a Muffling spell around 'their' table, she drew him down beneath the Butterfly Woman behind it. "What's in the journal, Ced?" she asked. "And don't brush me off. You're worried."

"It's private," he insisted.

"It _was_ private," she pointed out. "If it's about to become public, I'd like to know what 'it' is."

Heavy brows drawn together, he didn't answer for several long moments, just stared down at his hands. "Poetry," he said at last -- almost too softly for her to hear.

She resisted laughing. "Poetry?" He was worried they were going to read his poetry?

He nodded. "Mostly, yes. Some normal entries, but a lot of it is poetry."

"That's not exactly damning. Umbridge wants things she can use to accuse you of collaborating with Dumbledore."

"I know," he said, looking up. "She won't find that."

Hermione was curious. "You write poetry? I didn't know that."

He shrugged a shoulder. "It's not very good. It's just . . . easier, I guess. To express myself that way. Writing normally -- it feels flat, or corny, or stupid. It's never quite what I want to say. Poetry, though -- I say it better in fewer words. If that makes any sense."

"What do you write about? Me?" she asked a bit shyly.

"Sometimes, yeah. You. Me. Us. Sometimes other things entirely. The chair, the curse -- flying. It's just how I express myself."

She blushed. "Would you ever, um, let me read some of it?" She glanced up at his face, saw it glowed as red as she imagined hers must, and amended, "Never mind, I -- "

"It's really _not_ any good, poppet. Just me waffling. And well, the journal was my only copy."

"Oh."

His blush deepened to something hot like rage, or maybe mortification. "I just don't want some stranger reading it, and definitely not _her_. How I feel . . . it's none of her business."

Hermione took his hands in hers, squeezing. "I know it's not. Maybe they won't be able to open it, and she'll have to give it back."

"She's not going to give it back, Granger. That'd as good as admit she took it in the first place -- stole it. The best we can hope is that we never hear about it again."

* * *

And so the days passed tensely. Cedric had a terrible time trying to concentrate, Hermione knew, but when a week brought no word about the journal, he began to relax. They were approaching the end of May, and the final Quidditch match of the season -- Ravenclaw versus Gryffindor -- to decide the House Cup. It was just Hufflepuff's luck, Hermione thought, that the year they had a truly outstanding team was the one year they had no chance to win officially despite the fact everyone knew they were the real victors. Yet would anybody remember that in ten years? Or twenty, or fifty?

"Do you ever wonder about all the school stories we never hear?" she asked Cedric as they sat in the stands together watching the game. He'd flown there and she'd met him, agreeing to sit with him only if he promised not to sit at the top of the stands. "I mean, I read _Hogwarts, a History_, but that's just the official story. I doubt it's the true one."

He shot her a grin and elbowed her playfully. "_Is_ there a 'true' story, Granger?"

"What do you mean by that? Of course there's a true story! How things really happened."

"You don't think it depends on who's telling what happened?"

She frowned at him. "You either tell the story correctly or you lie to cover things up."

"Sometimes. Sometimes you just tell things the way you see it -- but nobody sees or knows everything, yeah?"

She frowned deeper because he had a point, but Scott leaned in from Cedric's other side to say, "He's messing with your head again, isn't he? He's good at that, the bastard."

"Bugger off," Cedric replied cheerfully.

"Language," Peter scolded from behind them.

"It's just Hermione," Scott replied, and winked at her. It was, she thought, his version of a compliment.

Before she could reply, however, someone gripped her ankle from below, and surprised, she looked down between the seats. A rather ragged-looking Hagrid looked up, sporting two black eyes and new bruises. He had Harry with him. "Listen, can yeh come with me? Now?" He glanced nervously towards Cedric who'd bent to look down too. "Er, hopin' yeh don' mind if'n I borrow her fer a bit, Diggory?"

"Not at all," Cedric replied. Since Hagrid had helped save Esiban, Cedric had . . . not changed his mind about Hagrid as a teacher, but he'd been less vehement about his disapproval. "I'll save your seat," he told her.

Nodding, Hermione made her way out and down beneath the bleachers. "How long will this take?" she asked Hagrid as they wove among the iron struts below.

"Er, uh, I'm not sure." He glanced around furtively. "I jus' hope she doesn' notice us . . . "

"Umbridge?" Harry asked and Hagrid nodded. "She won't. She's sitting on the other side with her pets all around her. I think she must be expecting trouble at the match -- or she's planning to cause it."

"Yeah, well, a bit o' trouble wouldn' hurt," Hagrid admitted. "Give us more time . . . "

"What is it, Hagrid?" Hermione asked, taking more interest in his disheveled appearance -- not that Hagrid was ever precisely neat, but he looked bad today even for Hagrid.

"Yeh -- yeh'll see in a mo'," Hagrid replied, and led them off.

And they did see. It made Hermione fervently wish she could've remained ignorant.

"A giant," she told Cedric later in the Room of Requirement.

He was busy brushing the brambles from her hair after her trek through the woods, and she felt his fingers still. "A -- _what_?" He turned her to face him. "You can't be _serious_. Please tell me you're joking."

"I wish I was."

"Merlin's beard," he muttered. "He's hiding a giant in the forest? That is . . . incredibly, incredibly dangerous. I can't believe Dumbledore would let him get away with that."

"I don't think Dumbledore knew." And Hermione told Cedric everything that had happened from 'meeting' Grawp to Hagrid's request that she and Harry go visit him if Hagrid were sacked, to their frightening encounter with the centaurs on the way out.

He listened without interrupting, but when she was done, said, "I'd be the worst boyfriend in the world if I let you go talk to giants, Hermione. I don't care what you promised Hagrid, there's no fucking way -- "

"Cedric, I have to -- "

"No, you don't!" He gripped her upper arms. "There are rational risks, and there are plain stupid ones. I don't care if that giant is related to Hagrid or not. He's a _giant_. He could kill you with a single blow of his hand. I can't . . . I can't believe Hagrid even asked such a thing of you and Harry. He should know better."

"Hagrid doesn't believes he's that dangerous."

"Hagrid, quite frankly, is an idiot. He may be a kind-hearted idiot, but he's an idiot."

"Cedric! And it may not come to that anyway. He only asked us to do it if he gets sacked, and after what Hufflepuff did, Umbridge may be afraid to sack him. There's only a month of classes left."

Cedric nodded. "We can hope. But I'm not the least convinced we shouldn't tell McGonagall, at least. Let her talk sense into Hagrid."

"We promised, Harry and I -- "

"Hermione, listen to me. There is a _giant_ in the Forbidden Forest. It's late spring and students are out on the grounds. If that giant got free, he could go on a rampage and kill a lot of people before anybody could stop him."

"Well, there are acromantulae in the forest, too -- "

"They won't come out. They wait for you to come to them. But that giant doesn't want to be there and he's going to escape at the first opportunity -- and 'escape' could take him right through school grounds. We have to tell somebody about this. It's the responsible thing to do."

Hermione knew, deep down, that Cedric was right, but -- "We promised him, Ced. Harry and I. We promised we'd keep the secret. Please, can we wait a little?"

"Hermione -- "

_"Please?_"

"Ah!" He tossed her brush onto the bedside table where candles burned, narrowly avoiding knocking them over. "You and Harry -- and Ron, too. This is how the three of you get into trouble. And now you've got me agreeing to your mad ideas."

"Thank you!" She hugged him tightly. "Thank you. I can't betray him. Hagrid's always stood by us -- by Harry. I just can't turn him in. It'd be all Umbridge would need to sack him."

Cedric sighed, running fingers through her hair almost as if against his will. "You drive me crazy sometimes, poppet."

* * *

The shoe dropped on Wednesday of the week before exams, while teachers reviewed. If Cedric hadn't forgotten about his missing journal, he'd relaxed as first one week, then two had slipped past. He just couldn't maintain high alert all the time. In fact, he was laughing with Ed and Peter as they were headed for dinner when he spotted Bill Weasley standing outside the Great Hall. "Cedric," Bill said, face serious, "would you please come with me?"

And Cedric -- who'd feared this even as he'd hoped he might escape it -- reached into his robes, pulling out a letter to hand to Peter. "Give this to Hermione." He'd been carrying it ever since he'd realized Umbridge most likely had his journal. Then he took a deep breath, ignoring the worried expressions on his friends' faces, and made his way over to Bill.

"I should confiscate that letter," Bill said.

"Please don't," was all Cedric could ask.

Bill shook his head. "I never saw it. Follow me." He led Cedric back to the lift, saying nothing till they were inside, then he tapped the panel with his wand. "Pause." He turned to Cedric. "We have three minutes before the alarm goes off, alerting Filch that the lift halted. You know Umbridge has your journal?"

"Yes. She stole it."

"I suspected as much. She told Fudge a student 'found' it and turned it in. I doubted you were so careless as to leave it lying about. Not to mention she never explained how she knew it was yours without being able to open it. Anyway, it was sent to the ministry a few weeks ago and I heard about it from Shacklebolt -- so I volunteered to crack it." Cedric felt his face go white. He couldn't believe Bill had betrayed him. "Someone was going to, Diggory. I wanted to be the one, in case there was anything in there about the Order -- "

"There wasn't. I'm not stupid."

"So I saw." He frowned down at his feet, braid falling over his shoulder. "Remus' wards were good, but designed to keep out nosey students, not professional curse breakers." He looked up at Cedric again. "What was in there, though -- I'm sorry, I couldn't do much about it. It would've been too suspicious if I'd destroyed it. They're going to expel you. You're hardly the first Head Boy to have sex with his girlfriend, but the journal has all the evidence they need to dismiss you for it. They wanted to get you for assisting Dumbledore, but Fudge doesn't care as long as he's rid of you. You've become the symbol of Hufflepuff, and he wants revenge."

Cedric felt cold seep into all his extremities. "Hermione?"

"Listen closely and I'll tell you how to save her. It's splitting legal hairs, but I think it'll work. She's never named in the entries in question. You talk about her in other entries, but they don't reference sex. If you refuse to name Hermione and don't let them trick you into it, they have no _conclusive_ evidence against her. It's you they're after, not her. Same as with Dumbledore, earlier. They got him and let Harry be. If they can get you, they'll probably let her be."

Reaching out, Bill tapped the panel with his wand. "Second floor," he said.

Sick to his stomach, Cedric bent a little at the waist. "I didn't say where any of it occurred, either. They can't prove it was here."

"You dated it. That's good enough for them. There's only so far you can push this, Cedric." Bill looked at him. "You can save Hermione." The corollary went unspoken. He couldn't save himself.

He nodded. "Thanks."

"You're welcome," Bill said as the lift doors opened and they exited into the hall. Cedric's limbs felt like water and his stomach roiled. For months, he'd expected Umbridge to find some way to get rid of him, and was amazed only that it had taken her so long. Yet expecting it didn't change the fact he was scared -- and somehow, he hadn't thought it would be for _this_. He'd assumed it would be something trumped up, something he could act indignant about -- not something he'd actually done wrong. He didn't want to be expelled, but his sense of justice made it hard to argue his innocence when he wasn't innocent.

Bill led him to Umbridge's office and paused at the door. "One last thing." He looked Cedric in the eye. "You're one hell of a poet, Diggory. I may not have been meant to read what you wrote, but I'm honored I got to. It was beautiful."

That wasn't what Cedric had expected him to say, and embarrassed he muttered, "Thanks," as Bill opened the door.

"Here he is," Bill said, stepping inside and taking up a position at the back of the room.

Cornelius Fudge sat behind Umbridge's desk, looking incongruous amid her frilly decor and ugly cat plates. Umbridge stood at his right shoulder, a triumphant grin in place as she regarded him. There were a pair of Aurors there, as well, but not anybody Cedric recognized, and he wondered why Fudge had brought Aurors. They couldn't arrest him for having sex with his girlfriend, could they? Expel him, yes, arrest him, no. Hermione was past the age of consent.

Bent over the desk, shoulders hunched and expression somewhere between angry and disgusted, Fudge held up the little black book Cedric hadn't seen in over two weeks. "Mr. Diggory, we need to talk about what we found in _this_."

Cedric swallowed, his first instinct to stay silent, but he didn't think silence would serve him. "Yes, we do," he answered instead. "We need to discuss the fact it was stolen right out of my dormitory. I may be a student, but I'm of age, Minister Fudge. I have rights."

Surprised, Fudge sat up. He must not have expected Cedric to go on the offensive. Umbridge appeared annoyed, but the Aurors looked troubled. "I was told it was found by another student and turned in to Madam Umbridge," Fudge said.

"No, it wasn't," Cedric replied. "I don't know what you were told, Minister, but it was stolen."

"You didn't report it stolen!"

"Would you report your diary was missing in a school full of nosey students? My friends knew. Ask them."

Fudge sniffed. "You're making excuses now that you've been caught, is what you're doing. It's your word against that of the student who found it -- and Headmistress Umbridge's. Why would either of them lie? You, however, have good reason to lie, given what this journal contains. It's lewd, disgusting, and _pornographic_! No wonder you kept it a secret. And we all know your penchant for lying and cheating, Mr. Diggory."

Fudge shook the book. "And to think you were appointed Head Boy at one point -- a position you clearly took advantage of in order to arrange trysts with your girlfriend, Hermione Granger."

And there it was, what Bill had warned him of. But to Cedric's surprise, one of the Aurors interrupted. "Minister? If that journal really is stolen property, then it's inadmissible -- "

"It's his word against theirs!" Fudge snarled. "And this isn't a court; it's a school. Diggory broke the rules and used his special position to do so. This . . . _disgusting_ collection of writings in Mr. Diggory's _own hand_ clearly admits to carnal activity with Hermione Granger."

"You seem to assume it's Hermione," Cedric said.

That got everyone's attention.

"She's not named, is she?" Cedric went on, keeping in mind what Bill had said.

Fudge was frowning. "Who else would it be?"

Cedric just shrugged.

Fudge came to his feet. "I demand that you give the name of the girl!"

"Why? So you can expel her too? Why would I be stupid enough to do that?"

Fudge's eyes were nearly popping out of their sockets. "You," Fudge spat, "were found in the prefects' bath with Hermione Granger after hours, and you name her in several entries -- "

"But not in any you're using to convict me. And as for the prefects' bath, Hermoine and I _weren't_ found together. She wasn't there when Professor Umbridge barged in on -- "

"Because the two of you were forewarned!" Umbridge broke in. "I _know_ you were in there with her!"

Cedric turned on her, pouring every ounce of hate he felt into his glare. "But you found no _evidence_ of it, did you? You just barged in on me as if my privacy didn't matter. I was _nude_ -- "

Thunderstruck, Fudge turned to stare at Umbridge, who flushed and snapped, "Well, it _was_ the bath. Filius was with me. I was there to catch him _in flagrante delicto_, not to oogle him!"

"So you say," Cedric muttered under his breath.

"What's that?" Fudge demanded, spinning.

"I said that's what _she_ says. But she stood there staring at me for a full minute. And she's spent the whole year _watching_ me. If you want to find perversion, Minister Fudge, maybe you ought to look to your own cabinet."

"Are you accusing my under-secretary of _voyeurism_?" Fudge demanded, face past red well into purple. But before Cedric could gather wits to reply, Fudge spoke to Bill Weasley. "Bring Miss Granger to this office, and Professor Flitwick as well. We're going to clear this up."

Cedric heard feet scrape and Bill's voice. "I'll fetch them." Cedric didn't turn to look, but heard the door close quietly behind.

Fudge returned his attention to Cedric. "Let me see if I can get this straight before our additional witnesses arrive. You claim that Miss Granger was not with you in the bath. You furthermore claim that the obscene material in your diary was _not_ written about Miss Granger, _and_ you claim that Madam Umbridge -- a well-respected and long-term member of my Ministry staff -- abused her position in order to leer at you in the bath, rather than -- as it would seem -- you abusing _yours_ in order to cavort with your girlfriend?" Fudge threw up his hands. "I'm not sure if that's more cheeky or more absurd, Diggory." Fudge frowned. "But I suppose a tendency to sexual misconduct runs in your family doesn't it? Like father like son."

Cedric blinked. _What? _He had no idea what Fudge was talking about, but he also had no time to worry about it. He needed to get his head together before Hermione and Flitwick arrived. Despite the front he'd struggled to maintain and his defiance of Umbridge, he'd never been in serious trouble in his life, and had no experience at resisting authority. He suspected his face showed his uncertainty and fear. "May I sit down, sir? My legs hurt."

Fudge glared harder. "No, you may not."

So they waited, Fudge behind the desk, Umbridge with him, conferring too softly for Cedric to hear. The Aurors faced forward, expressions unreadable. After a little while, Bill Weasley returned, a white-faced Hermione with him and Flitwick following, looking uncharacteristically annoyed. Hermione glanced at Cedric as she took the spot one of the Aurors indicated for her about five feet away -- too far for them to converse. Cedric hoped to hell she'd read his letter.

Flitwick, however, stepped right up to the desk. "What's so frantic I couldn't be allowed to finish my dinner, Cornelius?"

Fudge nodded to him. "I'm truly sorry for the interruption, but we need a few matters settled regarding the events you witnessed in the prefects' bathroom on the night of 19th March. I understand Professor Umbridge woke you to investigate a report that Cedric Diggory was in the prefects' bath with his girlfriend Hermione Granger?"

Frowning in earnest now, Flitwick stroked his beard. "You came all this way to investigate something that was cleared up over two months ago?"

Lips pursed, Fudge replied, "Just answer the question, please."

"Very well -- yes, she came and got me, but when we arrived, we found Mr. Diggory alone. Mr. Diggory's rooms were immediately searched, and Professor Umbridge had Mr. Filch guarding the bath exit as well as the exit to Mr. Diggory's rooms. Miss Granger wasn't found there, nor seen escaping. Furthermore, when Professor Umbridge checked Gryffindor Tower immediately after, Miss Granger was asleep in her bed."

"With wet hair!" Umbridge exclaimed.

"I understood she took a shower before bed. And both her roommates vouched for her presence all evening. Nothing was proven, and all the evidence pointed to their innocence."

Cedric noticed that Flitwick never once said that _he_ believed them innocent, even while he let Fudge assume it. Fudge sighed. "Very well then, it can't be proven. Mr. Diggory has made a counterclaim. He says Professor Umbridge showed an . . . inappropriate interest in him while he was naked in the bath."

Expression shrewd, Flitwick glanced around at Cedric. "Well, she did stare at him rather a long time, yes. I thought it a bit odd, and had to recall her attention to the matter at hand."

"How dare you!" Umbridge practically shrieked, "I did no such thing!" even as both Aurors and Fudge turned to gape at her. "That is . . . _clear_ exaggeration. I did not _stare_ at Mr. Diggory in the bath. That boy is in trouble and he'll say anything to get out of it. And Professor Flitwick is obviously on their side."

Taking a deep breath, Fudge said, "Dolores, I think this would be a good time to be quiet."

Turning back, Fudge breathed out. "Very well, Professor Flitwick, thank you for your testimony. You're free to go."

"Actually," Flitwick said, "I'd like to stay." Fudge opened his mouth to object, but Flitwick beat him to it. "If you're asking for my testimony, I'd like to know for what matter I've given it."

"This is a closed investigation," Fudge replied, tone fussy. "We'll release our charges when we've decided on them."

"What on earth are you investigating Diggory for?" Flitwick asked. "You think the poor lad tripped somebody with his crutch?"

"Please, professor. We're not prepared to release information yet. _You're free to go._"

One of the Auror's exited from behind the desk to open the office door and hold it open until Flitwick departed, casting a glance over his shoulder. When he was gone, Fudge turned his attention on Hermione. "Let me cut right to the heart of the matter, Miss Granger. Have you engaged in sexual intercourse with Mr. Diggory?"

Hermione gave a small gasp, mouth dropping open, and if Cedric didn't know better, he'd believe she hadn't seen that question coming. She was quite the little actress. "What on earth gave you that idea?"

Fudge held up Cedric's black journal. "Do you recognize this?"

"Of course; it's Cedric's diary. It disappeared. We think somebody stole it."

"So he said. Other testimony, however, says it was found on a table in the library. But you insist you haven't had sexual relations with Mr. Diggory?"

"No, I have not!"

"What would you say if you discovered he'd claimed otherwise? In here?"

Cedric felt Hermione's glance but kept his face forward. This was the dangerous moment. His letter to her had instructed her to deny they'd had sex if she were asked and accuse him of groundless bragging. He didn't know if she'd do it or if her Gryffindor loyalty would make her -- foolishly -- stand with him, and be expelled with him. But either Bill had been able to say something to her on the way here, or she was quicker on the uptake than he was. "Does he name me?" she demanded.

Fudge frowned. "Just answer the question."

"I did. I did not have sexual relations with Cedric. And I asked _you_ if he named me."

Annoyed, Fudge flicked the journal open to a previously marked page. Cedric's gut shook. Fudge wasn't going to --

"Miss Granger, if you please." He offered the open journal. "Read this and tell me that isn't you."

Cedric wanted to crawl into a hole and hide even as he wondered just what Fudge had given her to read. But with another glance at him, Hermione stepped forward to take the book and scan the page. Cedric watched the blush creep up her neck to her cheeks and ears.

"I think she should read it aloud, Minister," Umbridge said, eyes glittering with malice.

"Headmistress," Fudge admonished. "Material like that . . . It's not appropriate for a lady -- "

"Which Miss Granger manifestly is not."

"I was referring to you, Dolores," Fudge replied mildly.

And Umbridge's cheeks pinked. "Oh. Well, yes. But, it _is_ evidence -- "

Hermione had shut the journal, but didn't return it to Fudge. "I've read it," she said, "and I see no point reading it aloud that's not _voyeuristic_." She glared pointedly at Umbridge, and however mortified Cedric felt, he was grateful she had the presence of mind to protect their privacy.

Hermione turned her attention then on Fudge. "Minister, while this is a lovely if somewhat graphic poem, I don't see what it proves. Not only am I not named, neither is the speaker, nor is it signed by the author. For all you know, Cedric could have copied it from another source. Your evidence is circumstantial. Cedric and I have not had sex -- certainly not on Hogwarts' grounds."

If he'd been less frightened for them both, Cedric might have been quite thoroughly impressed (or deeply disturbed) by her ability to tell such a bald-faced lie while looking Fudge straight in the face. She pocketed the journal.

"That's evidence!" Fudge protested.

"Evidence unlawfully obtained without a search warrant," Hermione replied. "This belongs to Cedric and you have no right to confiscate somebody's personal papers without demonstrating probable cause to a magistrate. I can't imagine what 'probable cause' you'd have to seize Cedric's diary."

"It shows he's guilty -- "

"Of what, Minister? Copying erotic poetry? And you can't use illegally seized evidence in order to prove probable cause to seize that very evidence!"

"You are not a solicitor, Miss Granger!"

"Ask your Aurors," Hermione said, voice just south of smug.

The Aurors were nodding, and Cedric remembered their earlier discomfort. He wanted to hug his brilliant, brilliant girl. She handled pressure far better than he did.

But if Fudge were nearly frothing in rage, he was far from finished. "Miss Granger, this is not a court of law and Mr. Diggory is not on trial for a crime. Both of you are, however, under investigation for breaking school rules and this diary _does_ give such evidence in Mr. Diggory's own hand. I find your arguments that he just copied down erotic poetry a bit too precious; he didn't claim any such thing, and wouldn't he know?"

Cedric started to speak, but Fudge held up a hand. "You may not interrupt, Mr. Diggory; it's a bit late to corroborate Miss Granger's desperate invention. I also find it incredible that you, Miss Granger, would so vehemently defend your boyfriend if you weren't the girl in his poems -- if, in fact, he'd cheated on you with another, unnamed girl, as he implied. I'd expect you to be quite irate. Yet here you stand, thinking of new arguments as fast as you can. You spoke of my evidence being circumstantial -- your arguments are _tenuous_, at best."

Cedric could feel their momentum slipping, and remembered Bill's most important point earlier. Fudge was here to get rid of _him_, not necessarily Hermione. If he intervened now, if he offered Fudge a deal, he might jeopardize their position by showing weakness. But if he didn't . . . Fudge was right. Hermione's arguments might work in court to demonstrate reasonable doubt, but this wasn't a court. With sufficient evidence (however obtained), the Headmistress could expel them both for breaking school rules, and while they might appeal the decision, it would be too late for Hermione to take her exams.

Hermione _had_ to take those exams.

"Minister Fudge," he said, and they turned to look at him. "You don't have solid proof against her. We could make this difficult for you. _I _could make this difficult for you. But I won't -- _if_ you promise to leave her alone. I'll leave quietly and won't file an appeal, _if_ you leave her alone."

"Cedric -- !"

"Shut up, Granger."

Fudge had leaned forward. "So you admit you _are_ guilty of engaging in sexual relations with a girl here on school property?"

"Your word that you won't press charges against Hermione Granger? Made on your wand?"

Fudge reached for his wand and gripped the center of it. "Fine, fine. If you provide a signed affidavit, I won't press charges against Miss Granger."

"Very well, I agree," Cedric said.

Hermione was gaping at him. "Cedric . . . "

"You may go, Miss Granger."

"Minister Fudge!"

"You may go."

"Go, poppet," Cedric added.

For a minute, he didn't think she would, and heard Bill's step in the background as well as saw one of the Aurors posed to escort her out if necessary. But she dropped her head finally and turned towards the door. "You idiot," she muttered.

Fudge was flipping through sheets of parchment on the desk, clearly looking for something previously prepared. Finding what he wanted, he read aloud, "On this 3rd day of June, 1996, I, Cedric Gwalchmai Cerne Diggory, admit before witnesses to severe infractions against Hogwarts' school rules, up to and including repeated violation of curfew and decency regulations in order to engage in forbidden sexual activity with . . . " -- he paused to erase something with his wand -- "in forbidden sexual activity. In response to the severity of the charges, I hereby accept expulsion from Hogwarts."

He turned it on the desk to face Cedric. "Mr. Diggory?"

Out of options and word given, Cedric was cornered in a thicket of his own making. He hobbled forward to pick up the quill, dip it and sign his name. Looking at Fudge, he said, "You made an oath on your wand. Remember it."

Fudge snatched the paper almost out from under his quill. "You have an hour to pack your things and remove yourself from Hogwarts." He glanced at the Aurors. "Please escort Mr. Diggory to his former dormitory and see to it that he complies. He's not permitted to talk to anyone. I want him gone before the sun sets."

The Aurors were still looking uncomfortable. "Er, Minister -- what about his handicap?" asked the Auror who'd been silent so far, a youngish man. "You expect us to just drop him off at the front gate with his trunk? How's he going to get home?"

"That's his problem, isn't it? He's no longer a student of Hogwarts. It's no longer the school's responsibility to cater to his special needs. And if that's inconvenient for him, maybe he should have thought about that _before_ cavalierly breaking rules." When the Aurors still hesitated, Fudge clapped his hands. "That was an order, gentlemen. See to it!"

The march to Hufflepuff's cellar was excruciating, and inside, the whole House had gathered, faces shocked. When they saw him, his three denmates tried to come forward, "Cedric, mate! We heard -- !" but both Aurors stepped in front of him.

"You may not speak with Diggory. Minister's ruling."

Yet if his house couldn't talk to him, they could talk among themselves _about_ him. And the news had taken virtually no time at all to spread. "He and Hermione -- ?" "They got caught, you know, _doing it_." "You're kidding!" "How come only he got expelled then?" "I don't know." "It's not about Cedric, it's about Hufflepuff. It's Umbridge's revenge." (That was Scott's voice, hard and unequivocal.) "But _did_ he do it?" "So what if he did . . . ?" And so it went all around the Sett while he packed.

When he exited the tunnels into the common room cellar, he found Professor Sprout standing by the door, wringing her hands, tears in her eyes. Embarrassed to face her, he dropped his own eyes as she came towards him. The Aurors moved to intercept her, but she swatted the hand of one. "Paddy Williamson, you are _not_ going to keep me from saying goodbye, are you! Or you, Bill Proudfoot?"

Cedric was a little surprised when both stepped aside to let Sprout wrap her plump arms around his shoulders, hugging him tightly, and not as if she were ashamed of him. "I'm so sorry," he whispered. "I never meant to disgrace the House."

"Shh," she whispered back, then let him go and made shooing motions to the Aurors before turning her back to hide her obvious sobbing. The rest of the Sett was quiet now, nobody spoke as the Auror Sprout had named Proudfoot, the elder of the two, opened the door.

Thus Cedric left the Sett and the castle for the final time -- Umbridge watching triumphantly. Twenty minutes later, the Aurors were opening the front gate to Hogwarts' grounds, and he stepped outside, too numb to feel much of anything beyond shock. It rang through him like the sound of iron clanging shut behind. The sun was still up, although squatting low on the horizon, and he glanced down at his trunk. He supposed it would be easiest to get a room in The Three Broomsticks tonight, and contact his parents from there.

"Need some help?"

He jerked his head around to find Bill Weasley slouching to one side of the gate, arms crossed, one shoulder braced against the stone wall. Pushing away, Bill came over and Levitated Cedric's trunk with a lazy swish of his wand. "Let's get you to Hogsmeade. Rosmerta's got a room waiting and we'll fill you in on your options."

"A room -- ? Madam Rosmerta has a room -- ?" He couldn't seem to get a complete sentence out of his mouth.

Bill just grinned. "We've anticipated this since I cracked your journal, and we've been planning." Cedric wondered who 'we' was -- his parents? The Order? Some combination? "Like I said, let's get to Hogsmeade and I'll fill you in. I understand you can still Apparate despite the crutches?"

In less than five minutes, they stood in The Three Broomsticks, Cedric being shown into the same room where he'd met his mother and Remus Lupin the previous Autumn. Remus was there again now, Esiban leaping from his arms to climb atop Cedric's shoulder. And there was another figure with them who he hadn't expected to see --

"Professor Dumbledore!"

* * *

**  
****Notes:** I must, again, thank Itay Avtalyon for his research into Jewish magic that gave me the basic ideas for Rose's 'invisibility' spell. In the book, Hufflepuff did beat Slytherin in their Quidditch match, if not by quite the margin I gave them here. While we're not told everything, it seems Hufflepuff _did_ have an outstanding year at Quidditch in '95-'96; I didn't make that up. We know they beat both Gryffindor and Slytherin. It gave me fodder to play with in this novel.


	34. NEWTs & OWLs

It was all too much. Here, on the eve of exams meant to determine the rest of her life, she found herself completely unable to concentrate. She'd not only lost Cedric, but their private life had been exposed to public censure and ridicule. Madam Umbridge had made no bones about why Cedric had been expelled. The interrogation had begun before dinner, and by the meal's end, the decision had been made and Umbridge was escorting him out of the castle, announcing his expulsion -- and the reason for it -- to all and sundry.

If Hermione hadn't been explicitly named, well -- everybody knew. And if they _didn't_ think it her, that was, if possible, worse.

Hermione hadn't been in the Great Hall to hear. She'd gone directly from Umbridge's office to Gryffindor tower and her own dormitory, where she'd flung herself down on her bed with her curtains drawn and cried. The tears had been as much from anger and humiliation as despair.

That was where Angelina Johnson found her. She didn't say anything, just pushed aside the curtains and sat down on Hermione's bed, rubbing her back. After a while, she whispered, "That's right -- get it all out. Cry as much as you need to." Then, later, "It'll blow over in a few days. They'll have something new to gossip about."

Hermione finally sat up and asked Angelina what was happening outside the tower, and the older girl told her about Umbridge's announcement, and how Cedric had been escorted from the castle without being allowed to speak to anybody.

"How did he look?" Hermione asked.

"Furious. A bit scared."

"What's going to happen to him now?" Hermione asked. "No NEWTs, expelled from Hogwarts -- this wasn't supposed to happen to someone like _him_."

Angelina dipped her head so she could look into Hermione's face. "It's not the end of the world, you know. Loads of people go on to work that hasn't got a thing to do with their NEWT scores. And look at Fred and George -- they didn't even take them. They don't _need_ them. Cedric . . . he's the Triwizard Champion, Hermione. People haven't forgotten that. You wait and see. When the dust settles, people won't remember him as the boy who got expelled. They'll remember him for standing up to Umbridge, and for telling the truth about You Know Who.

"The short term's going to be harder," Angelina admitted, "but nothing seems to be normal any more."

Later, Ginny came in to sit with Hermione. "Harry and Ron are worried about you. They wish you'd come down to the common room."

"I can't," Hermione said. "I just want to be alone. Well, I mean not have all the people down there staring at me."

Nodding, Ginny picked up Hermione's brush from the bedside table and began brushing Hermione's hair the way someone might soothe a cat by grooming it. "They wanted me to tell you that no matter what, you're still their friend."

And the phrasing of that made Hermione choke on rage and yank out from under the brush. "So what? Even if I'm the school _slag_ now, they'll suffer the gossip?"

"Oh, stop it. You know that's not what they mean. And half the school already knew about you and Cedric."

But Hermione shook her head. "No, Ginny -- they _didn't_ know. They speculated, they guessed, but they didn't _know_. Knowing for sure . . . it changes things."

And indeed, it did.

Unable to face breakfast the next morning and too upset to be hungry, Hermione skipped it to go straight to class. But the stares in Double Charms were heavy on her neck and back, and in the courtyard during break, Draco Malfoy, accompanied by Crabbe, Goyle and Pansy, strutted over to ask -- loudly enough to be overheard by some third- and fourth-year Hufflepuffs, "You must be some kind of fantastic lay, Granger, that Diggory would risk everything to do you."

"Malfoy . . . " Harry warned, getting in front of her. Hermione would have objected to the intervention but was feeling too beaten down to fight back even against Malfoy.

Malfoy just smirked at Harry. "You want her next, Potter? Don't mind being second choice? I'd be careful. Notice that Diggory's gone but she's still here." He pointed to the prefects' badge on her left breast. "And still a prefect, too."

He sauntered off while the nearby Hufflepuffs muttered among themselves and glared at her. Pansy hovered a moment. "If it'd been Draco, I'd have left with him. I don't suppose you loved Cedric after all, did you? You just loved his status, and his pretty face."

And that hurt more than anything Malfoy had said. Cedric had sacrificed himself for her sake, and she'd let him. She'd walked out of the office when he'd told her to and let him take the blame for them both. And why? So she could take some stupid exams? Everybody said she worried too much about school, cared too much. She felt the tears prick even as the Hufflepuffs turned and headed in the other direction, but not before she heard one of them say, loudly, "She's pathetic."

"I should have gone with him," she whispered turning to lean up against one of the stone walls of the courtyard. The June sun shone down on her black robes, making her hot. Tearing them off, she threw them on the ground. "We were both guilty. I should have been expelled too."

"No you shouldn't!" It was Ron, not Harry, who spoke up with uncommon vehemence. Gripping her shoulders, he turned her and bent to look into her face, just inches away. "Diggory knew what he was doing, Hermione. You have to take these exams -- you _have_ to, if you want to stay in the Wizarding World. You told us he made a bargain, and he bloody well ought to've." Ron's face was a clashing red with his hair. "Damn fool -- he was older than you, he knew better. He shouldn't have seduced you in the first place."

"He didn't -- "

"Rubbish!" Ron insisted. Harry was looking on, a bit bemused, but Hermione thought he might have been inclined to agree with Ron. He'd retrieved her robes from the ground. "The pretty boy couldn't keep it in his trousers," Ron went on. "Well, now he's paying for it. The only thing that makes me not want to kick his arse from here back to Devon is that he didn't take you down with him. You're going to _be_ somebody, Hermione. You're going to do brilliantly in these exams and your NEWTs too, when we get that far. You're going to set the Wizarding World on its ear, and if he'd mucked that up, I'd've killed him."

Hermione stared at Ron. This wasn't just some old-fashioned, misplaced chivalry. And it was more than friendship, too. She slipped her arms around his shoulders and held on for a moment. "Thank you," she whispered. "Just thank you. But don't blame him." She pulled away to look Ron in the eye. "We didn't do anything I didn't want to do. If you blame him, you have to blame me, too."

"Well," Harry said, "if it makes you feel better, I'm absolutely cheesed off with both of you." This was offered so matter-of-factly, along with her robes, that it made Hermione laugh.

They were headed to Potions when a stiff-faced McGonagall stopped in front of the three of them. "Miss Granger, if I could see you for a moment in my office?"

Tummy sinking and hands shaking, she glanced at Ron and Harry, then followed McGonagall with her head down. Was this it? Cedric had made Umbridge and Fudge promise to leave her alone, but McGonagall hadn't promised any such thing. McGonagall could expel her too, or at least take away her status as a prefect.

In fact, Hermione rather wished she would. She should suffer too, not just Cedric. Once they were behind McGonagall's office door, she reached up and unpinned her badge, offering it to her Head of House silently. But McGonagall just frowned, "What on earth are you doing, Miss Granger?"

"I don't deserve this."

McGonagall sighed and settled down on a corner of her desk. "Maybe you believe you don't, but I'm not sure there's anyone in your year who deserves it more. Put it back on, please. That's not what I called you in here for." And she held out a folded piece of parchment to Hermione.

Pinning her badge back, Hermione hesitated, then took the parchment and opened it. It was a letter in Cedric's hand**:**

_Dearest poppet,_

_Don't worry -- everything's going to be all right. Study hard and do well on your exams, and don't worry about me. I'm going to be able to take mine, too._

Her hand flew to her mouth to hold back something between a giggle and a gasp of joy.

_I'm in Hogsmeade, in the Three Broomsticks, which is where the examiners will be staying. They've made arrangements and I'll sit my exams in the evenings. Remus Lupin is here, helping me finish preparing since I don't have access to the library. I don't have time to explain everything, as I need to write this in a hurry so Bill can take it back to the castle to be passed on to you, but from the time the journal was taken, they've been making contingency plans. You remember my doctors wrote a letter that would allow me to take exams even if I withdrew from Hogwarts? They used that, and Madam Marchbanks is a friend of Madam Bones._

_So everything's going to be all right. Concentrate on your OWLs, and let my mates know, but don't spread the news around too much. It's better if Umbridge doesn't figure out we did a fly-around when she wasn't looking._

_ Love,  
Ced_

Hermione pressed the parchment to her chest, every muscle water-weak with relief. "He gets to take his exams," she said, although she suspected McGonagall already knew as much. "He gets to take his exams."

Lips thin, McGonagall said, "I hope he manages to pass them, given . . . everything. I don't think I have to tell you how disappointed I am in the two of you." And the real regret in McGonagall's voice hurt more than any shouted accusation. "My best students. My very best students . . . the ones who should have had the most sense, who should have been concentrating on studying . . . "

"We _did_ study," Hermione protested. "That's why I was so upset. He studied so _hard_, professor. In spite of everything happening to him, he studied hard. He deserves a chance."

McGonagall looked skeptical. "I can't imagine when you managed to fit any studying in -- "

"Every night in the library!" Hermione said, a bit frustrated. What did McGonagall think? That she and Cedric had spent all their time in bed? "We spent almost all our free time in the library."

Face wry, McGonagall sighed. "It would seem the 'almost' part of that is what caused the problems." Hermione blushed. "Well, I hope the two of you at least had the good sense to cast contraception spells, or do we need to see Madam Pomfrey?"

Head bowed, Hermione shook her head. "We were careful." She looked up through her hair. "I love him, professor. I really do love him and he loves me."

And McGonagall's expression softened. "I believe you, Miss Granger. Mr. Diggory certainly risked everything so you could stay here and take your exams -- but do I need to point out that you're only sixteen and he's eighteen? You both have your whole lives ahead of you, and very promising futures if you don't throw them away. Whatever you may be _feeling_, you can't let that stop you from thinking, do you understand?"

Hermione nodded.

"Very well. Go back to class." She scrawled something on a piece of parchment. "Give this to anyone who asks what you're doing in the hallways. And may I suggest that his letter might be a good object on which to practice a Vanishing spell?"

"Yes, professor," Hermione said, ducking out the door. But she didn't intend to Vanish the letter yet.

At lunch, she braved the glares and a few hisses from Hufflepuff table to stop behind Scott and Ed and clear her throat. "Could I have a word?"

Both of them, and Peter too, looked up at her. Peter's face was hostile, Scott's curious, and Ed's concerned. Susan, sitting beside Ed, just looked sympathetic. Scott made room for her on the bench between him and Ed. "Sit down."

She did so and with a glance at the head table -- Umbridge was watching -- reached out for sandwiches to fill her plate. "Wait till she's not looking."

It took a while. Umbridge kept glancing their way and Hermione began to wonder if she'd stop. Finally, though, she left the Hall and Hermione reached into her pocket to pull out the letter, passing it to Ed first. "Read it quickly."

He did, Susan looking over his shoulder, and murmured, "Thank heavens," as he passed it to Scott, who read it then passed it to Peter.

"I thought you might like to see, not just hear." After her experience with the Hufflepuffs in the courtyard earlier, she hadn't been sure what kind of reception she'd get from Cedric's friends, and had wanted ammunition.

Peter slipped her the letter back under the table and she refolded it, returning it in her pocket. "You'd better get rid of it," he advised. "Last thing we need is to have that confiscated too."

"I will," Hermione said, rising from the table.

"Hermione," Peter called behind her, and she turned. "Did you see the painting this morning?"

She hadn't. She'd been almost afraid to. But now she hurried of out the Great Hall doors and down the hallway to the entrance where the painting hung beside the stairs leading down to the Hufflepuff common room.

Splayed out on his side in the clearing lay the gray-eyed buck. His chest still rose and fell, and Hermione couldn't see any obvious wound, but he was down, and perhaps dying, his legs and his head moving weakly. She bit back a sob and reached up, fingers trailing over the canvas as if she could touch the gold hide. "You can't die yet," she told him. Cedric had said it would be all right. He'd get to take his tests. Umbridge might have expelled him, but he would still get to take his tests. "You're going to be all right, you hear me? You're going to be all right. Please get up." She kept stroking the canvas.

"He was bitten by the snake."

She spun. Zacharias Smith sat behind her on the bottom step of the stairwell. "How do you know?" she asked.

"I've been watching. Since yesterday afternoon when I saw Bill Weasley arrive with Minister Fudge." She crossed to face him. People underestimated Smith, took him for a hothead or a trouble-maker -- and he was both. But he was shrewd too. "The painting knows what's going to happen."

"Actually, it records," Hermione corrected, "or that's what Ced thinks."

"Maybe so. In any case, I've been watching off and on since yesterday. The buck and his doe were in the clearing when the snake came up on them. The buck started plunging, trying to step on it. The snake struck his back fetlock. It was the doe who trampled it."

"The doe?"

"She's in the bushes; you can't see her right now. She's watching. He's dying." Smith's eyes on her were hard.

"He's not going to die, Zacharias. The painting's just symbolic." She pulled out the letter and handed it to him. "It's going to be all right."

Smith read the letter through, then folded it and handed it back. "Trample her, Granger. For Ced's sake."

Nodding, she moved past him up the stairs. Harry and Ron had Divination this period, but Hermione was free. Before going to the library, she went back to her room in Gryffindor Tower and opened her trunk. Cedric's journal had been stuffed inside a pocket of her big, winter jacket. She hadn't been able to return it to him, so she'd hidden it. Last night, she'd been far too depressed to give much thought to it, but now she did, opening it and shoving his letter in the back. Then she just held it in her hands and stared at it. It was so tempting to sneak a peek. She vividly remembered the poem he'd written, and wondered what else he had to say about her?

But it wouldn't be right. His privacy had already been violated, and if she read his journal, she'd be no better than Umbridge, or Fudge. She'd always respected that he had things he needed to say that he didn't want anyone else to see.

But that poem . . .

He'd protested that his poetry was bad, but it wasn't. It was just . . . tender. Lovely and tender and vulnerable, as if he'd stripped himself bare on the page in ink and letters.

Maybe just that poem. She'd already read it -- that wouldn't be violating his trust to read it again. She just wanted to read the poem again.

It had been near the end of the entries, and she did her best to flip through the pages without reading anything else. She stumbled over a sketch, and remembered him sitting in the library making it. His mother was right -- he did have a fair eye, but the proportions were off slightly**: **her cheeks too full, her eyes too tilted, her nose too long and the eyebrows not quite even. Yet it made Hermione think again about the painting in the entrance hall. Now that Cedric was away from Hogwarts, would he remember to contact his mother about it? Could she get a letter to him to remind him?

Shaking her head, she turned the page -- and there was the poem she'd sought. She ran her fingertips over the faint indentations of the letters left by his quill.

**Impaled**

You pierce me piercing you  
and the weight of your hips on my hips sinks me in glossy satin and hot flesh.  
Your breasts round into my palms,  
sweet nipples red like summer strawberries,  
red like the sweet lips above and those below.  
I've kissed both, tasted your salty sharpness on my tongue  
-- quite unlike strawberries --  
and felt you tremble for me.

You pierce me piercing you  
and I cry out because the force of this lust and yearning can't be contained inside my chest.  
I am vanquished and you take me prisoner.  
I am surrounded by you and undone,  
shaken-shuddering arching into you, seeking to fly.

You pierce me piercing you  
and I will love you like this with mouth and arms and prick and palms and skin and all of me.  
I am splayed open for you to see in a vulnerable tangle of limbs;  
you ride me.  
I am willing broken and tamed in submission to your small hand alone.

You pierce me piercing you  
and I would die here, heart-ripped, if I had my choice of dying places.  
One last time before cold earth takes me, I would see lids slide shut over sable eyes  
and the flush steal up from your belly across chest and neck as you come, screaming mute.  
I follow you over, teeth-clenched, toes-curled and my shoulders off the bed,  
bent towards you in supplication.  
I spill inside. The little death.

You pierce me piercing you  
and I am the flier falling, sun struck. I am Icarus and you are the sea.  
I drown in you while you bear me up,  
teach me to breathe water.  
You are stronger than I, small and slight in my arms you run like a river,  
wearing away the banks of my isolation.

You pierce me piercing you.  
I am impaled on love, arms thrown wide.

Like his mother's art, it was raw and frank and rather graphic, but so full of honesty and emotion that it shattered her. That she could make him feel this way gave her courage to face the stares and whispers and dirty names. People could say what they wanted. She had this.

She shut the diary and started to return it to her trunk, then thought better of that and shoved it between her mattress and springs. The seals had been broken; she didn't want anybody else getting a hold of it.

* * *

"And again."

Taking a deep breath, Cedric raised his wand, positioned it, and cast for the seventh time -- "_Expecto Patronum!_" -- with as little success as the first six. At best, he was getting a weak mist emerging from the end of his wand, just the same as he had in Harry's D.A. meetings. "I just can't do it!" he yelled, almost throwing his wand in frustration.

"Well, you certainly can't if you decide you can't," Lupin replied mildly. "You have a mental block on this spell, Cedric. There's no reason you can't cast it; you're easily strong enough. But every time you fail, it just reinforces in your mind that you can't."

"What are the chances of it being on the practical exam?"

"Fair, but far from certain. Even if it is, and even if you don't manage it, that certainly won't mean failure for you."

"Defence Against the Dark Arts isn't my strong suit," Cedric muttered as Lupin walked over to pat him on the back where he sat in the chair. "I'll be ecstatic if I can manage to pull an E on this. I'm just hoping for an A."

"Let's work on something else for a while."

So they did. Yet despite his problems with the Patronus Charm, he had to admit that working with Remus was preparing him better in a handful of days for his Defence Against the Dark Arts exam than he'd been prepared by Umbridge all year. Although Dumbledore had stayed for only an hour that first evening -- long enough to be certain Cedric was settled, and to put heart back into him merely by his presence -- Remus Lupin had remained at the Three Broomsticks ever since. Cedric wondered if he were there to protect him as much as to help him study. Cedric's mother had written the morning after his expulsion -- when the news was all over the paper -- and if it wasn't the Howler he'd expected, she was curt and to the point:

_Did it never occur to you to claim you had _copied_ the poems, Cedric? Or made them up? Bill and Kingsley should have come to me. Kingsley said he wasn't sure I knew, and hadn't wanted to embarrass you, but the lot of you are entirely too honest for your own good. Where was your head? Fudge had no case, and illegally acquired evidence. He was counting on you to react exactly as you did. If you'd challenged it all from the start, he'd have had to dismiss it. _

_Mother_

Of course he _had_ tried to challenge it from the start, but thinking under pressure had never been his strong suit -- not in the Tournament, and not now, either. Hermione, two years his junior, had done better. He didn't write back to tell her any of that. He'd learned young that she didn't tolerate excuses.

His first exam on Monday was in Charms, and he took the written portion in the afternoon in the upstairs dining room, watched over by, of all people, Madam Rosmerta. As his second-best subject, it gave him a certain amount of confidence, and the testers were back in the evening to handle the practical exam, which he thought went rather well, all things considered.

Tuesday was Transfigurations for which he sat not only the normal exam, but the advanced exam for his special license. Madam Marchbanks examined him herself on the practical, and by the end, he felt certain she wasn't asking him NEWT questions any longer, but just asking whatever she could think of to amuse them both. They halted around 10 in the evening, and he Transfigured a fistful of straws into white roses. She cackled in delight and took them in her tiny, arthritic hands. "You're quite the flatterer, Mr. Diggory. And thank you for a most entertaining evening."

Wednesday was his Herbology exam, but not being at Hogwarts made the practical a bit harder. Professor Sprout showed up that evening with a good dozen different plants as well as a letter. He pocketed the letter, fearing that reading it would distract him, but that might have been a mistake as he kept thinking about it all through the exam and made several foolish errors. When it was over, he was nursing a bruised left hand from a Venomous Tentacula, and gratefully escaped to the privacy of his room to read.

_Dear Ced,_

_You have no idea how relieved I was to receive your note. We should both have suffered, not just you. I could barely sleep that first night. You studied too hard to lose everything._

_I don't know when, or even if, you'll get this. I'm writing on a Saturday afternoon and giving it to Professor McGonagall. Do well and know I'm thinking of you. I have your journal; it's hidden. I have __not__ read it -- but you were wrong. Your poetry isn't bad at all. It's beautiful._

_Also now that you're free of Hogwarts, write to your mother about the painting. Time is running out before the 21__st__. She has to be told what happened. Please don't take any needless risks._

_ Love,  
Hermione_

In all the hullabaloo, he'd completely forgotten the painting, but it was a bit late to send a letter that evening. Besides, he needed to write back to her. Professor Sprout had graciously agreed to wait long enough for him to do so.

_Dearest poppet,_

_Thank you for keeping my journal safe. I have no idea what sort of backlash you're facing, but can imagine -- and it bothers me. I miss you terribly._

_Don't fret about your exams, but I know you will, so at least be sure to get some sleep even if it means visiting Madam Pomfrey. As for the painting, I'll write to my mother tomorrow. Stop worrying about it._

_ I love you,  
Cedric_

It was, in fact, the next evening before he remembered to write to his mother. When he'd awoken, his immediate thoughts had been about his most difficult exam -- Defence Against the Dark Arts -- and he didn't relax until the practical was finished that evening where, thankfully, he was _not_ asked to produce a Patronus. Going back up to his room and pulling out Hermione's letter just to read it again, he remembered the painting and sat down at the desk to write home. He sent it from the post office the next morning.

His mother was at the Three Broomsticks by noon.

He hadn't trusted the whole story to parchment, but he'd apparently said enough to worry her considerably. As he had no exam that day, she took him up to the room he was renting and quizzed him quite thoroughly, including things he wasn't comfortable talking about to his _mother_. "Well, er, we . . . tried intercourse at the house. It was sort of a disaster." She wanted to know exactly how. "She, um, tightened up. I couldn't get in -- well, not without hurting us both."

"Good heavens, Cedric, what did you expect? Nice girls hear all their lives that they have to stay in control, hold back -- and you think that conditioning just vanishes at the drop of a hat?" Yet Cedric wasn't sure conditioning had been Hermione's problem as she'd only reacted badly when it had involved pain -- hardly surprising. "In any case," his mother went on, "tell me what happened on Beltane Eve."

He did, albeit not graphically, ending with, "We didn't think anything of it. Maybe we hadn't intended it to happen in a _cupboard_, but it wasn't as if we were trying _not_ to let it happen. In retrospect, though -- it seemed a bit odd. I felt like I lost my head completely."

Her eyebrow hiked. "I can't imagine why an eighteen-year-old boy under great stress might lose his head in a heavy petting session with his girlfriend."

Phrased that way, his worries did seem rather absurd. "So you don't think it's the painting?"

"I'm not certain, but rather doubt it. What you've described sounds quite normal, although the timing is suspect, I admit."

"What _does_ the painting do, mum? You didn't answer me before."

"As you and Hermione surmised, it records." She shifted in her seat, smoothing down her velvet robes. "Not long after you sent to ask me about Dolores Umbridge, I was in Diagon Alley and overheard a shop-keeper complaining about a recent rash of shop-lifting incidents. A witch there, apparently Muggleborn, explained Muggle theft-deterrent cameras. They run continually, and might therefore catch a crime in process. It gave me an idea."

"So your painting is like a . . . camera?"

"After a fashion. I knew that were I to bring a painting that recorded recognizable images, it would be too easy to circumvent. But a symbolic painting? Dolores Umbridge may be suspicious, but they're just symbols -- suggestive, but hardly admissible in court.

"What she doesn't realize is that on the 24th of June, all 'symbols' will revert to actual images showing everything she's done to you, and to Hermione." She bent forward. "Hexing the Snitch to follow you? It will show her casting the spell. The incident in the bath? It'll show that too." She frowned. "It shouldn't, however, show anything but from the point she arrived. It's keyed only to record events where she is present with you, or Hermione."

"So you did paint Hermione into it?"

"Of course I did, along with Dolores Umbridge, and even Minister Fudge." She rubbed her forehead. "I intended it to protect the two of you -- not expose you. Although really, Cedric, this entire business with the journal. I thought I'd raised you to be more cautious and suspicious_. __The Daily Prophet_ has had a field day with all of it."

He didn't want to get into that, and pressed his lips together. "Mother, there's one problem -- the painting _did_ show Hermione and I when Umbridge wasn't present. On Beltane morning."

For the first time, her face appeared troubled. "The painting showed Beltane because it's part of the Hunter's story; the scene was always there, if not quite like you described. I _will_ examine the painting, have no fear, but I'm not sure there's more to this than a peculiar coincidence. The only way to halt the painting now is to destroy it, and I'm not going to do that based on a theory, Cedric. That painting will send Dolores Umbridge to Azkaban."

* * *

Hermione was called to Professor Snape's office on Saturday morning. He met her at the door, wearing his usual half-sneer. "So good of you to join us, Miss Granger."

She wondered what 'us' he meant until she stepped past him and spotted the shadowy figure in the room behind. "Mrs. Diggory!" She'd never in her life so wanted to hug or hit somebody at the same time. "You came to stop the painting!"

"Actually, I came to _inspect_ the painting." Cedric's mother glanced at Snape. "Severus, thank you for permitting us to borrow your office. Might I speak with Hermione alone?"

"As you wish," he replied and turned, sweeping out of the room, dark ropes swishing against the door frame.

"Please have a seat," Mrs. Diggory said when the door closed, and indicated a chair. Even in summer, here in the dungeon, the furniture was always chill and Hermione could feel it through her blue jeans. Studying in her room (she avoided the library now), she hadn't bothered with robes. As usual, Mrs. Diggory wore them, a deep maroon shade that in the shadows appeared nearly black.

When Hermione was settled in a chair, Cedric's mother leaned against Snape's desk facing her, and explained exactly what the painting was, and how it worked.

"A magical security camera," Hermione muttered when Lucy Diggory was finished. "Brilliant." Then she looked up again. "But I do have to wonder about the coincidence. Isn't that . . . odd?"

"It is. But coincidences do happen. And from what Cedric tells me" -- her fine eyebrows went up -- "the two of you _had_ been putting yourselves in an increasingly tenuous position for days. You'd hardly be the first pair of students to have sex in the nooks and crannies around Hogwarts -- anywhere there _isn't_ a painting to observe, or a ghost likely to stumble across you."

Hermione blushed. "I'm afraid we did rather have a problem with a ghost. Earlier."

"So I understand. That was very foolish, and you're both very fortunate. Even more fortunate that Dolores Umbridge never thought to ask the stained-glass mermaid what _she'd_ seen."

Hermione blinked; she'd completely forgotten the mermaid. "How do you know about the mermaid in the window?"

"I was a prefect too."

And Hermione realized she should probably have expected as much. "So you don't think the painting . . . did something to us?"

"I find it unlikely. And I have examined it. As near as I can tell, it's functioning properly."

"But what if it isn't? What if it really _is_ making things happen? It could _kill_ Cedric -- "

"Hermione!" Mrs. Diggory said, cutting sharply across Hermione's rising panic. "Do you really think I'd permit that painting to kill my only son?"

Flushing, Hermione looked down and shook her head, feeling rather silly now.

"I don't play games with the lives of my family. But I also don't intend to react without thought and destroy the very thing I created in order to bring my son's tormentor to justice."

"But you have enough evidence now; you could just stop it -- "

"No, I cannot. The only way to halt the painting is to burn it. And only I could do so -- no other hand can harm it."

"But the 21st of June is just days away. What if he dies?"

"Hermione, _think_. For argument's sake, let's say you're correct and the painting did somehow influence your and Cedric's behavior. Did it force-walk the two of you into that cupboard? No. At most, you put yourselves in a position that the painting could influence. On the 21st of June, please trust me that Cedric will be under close guard by several members of the Order and when his last exam is over that afternoon, we'll take him directly to Grimmauld Place where he'll remain until the painting is complete. He simply won't be permitted to place himself in a position where he could be killed -- all assuming the painting could cause any such thing." She leaned forward then and put a hand on Hermione's shoulder. "I promise you, I will _not_ let my son die."

Hermione took a ragged breath, then let it out. She felt better, even if a part of her remained nervous. "Thank you," she said, then steeled herself to add. "But the next time you paint me into something, please ask first. That was bloody rude, not to warn me."

Lucy actually gave her a smile. "So it was. But necessary. I didn't want either you or Cedric to know precisely what the painting did, if examined. I wouldn't put it past Dolores Umbridge to use Veritaserum. Better to be innocent." She pulled her hand back. "Now, go and study. Cedric will be fine, and his exams have been going well. I expect you to put your focus on yours."

Nodding, Hermione rose and headed for the door, but paused before opening it. Blushing slightly, she said, "Would it be all right if I sent a letter back to him with you?"

"Of course."

Together, they found some blank parchment on Snape's desk and a quill. "If Severus complains, I'll deal with him," Mrs. Diggory said as Hermione wrote something quickly, smiling at the mental image of Lucretia 'dealing' with Professor Snape in a snit. She wondered if anything or anybody scared Cedric's mother.

With her exams to worry about, Hermione didn't think of another way to test her theory about the painting until Tuesday afternoon before their astronomy exam that evening. It was the 20th, but if she did turn out to be right, there was still time. Unfortunately, testing her theory would be a bit embarrassing, not to mention that -- if she _were_ right -- she had a big problem. Nonetheless, and with Cedric's life on the line, she was hardly going to let embarrassment stop her.

There was more to the legend of Beltane than just the maiden goddess' deflowering by the god. He also impregnated her. It hadn't occurred to Hermione before that she might be carrying a child as she and Cedric had been careful, but if the painting really _had_ compelled the two of them to have sex, she might be pregnant too, spells or no spells. If she weren't, it probably was just coincidence. But if she were?

She gave a vague excuse to Harry and Ron before supper and headed up to the girls' dormitories in Gryffindor Tower, looking for any member of the Order of the Purple Dildo who might be there. The first she found was Alicia Spinnet, bent over three different texts, reading frantically, fingers braiding and unbraiding her dark hair. She wasn't one of the older girls who Hermione knew well, but she was the only one around, and Angelina had said the Order took care of their own. "Alicia?" she asked, "do you have a minute?"

Alicia looked up and blinked as if bringing her mind back to the present. "Yes?"

Moving close to the bed even though the dormitory was currently empty of anyone but them, Hermione asked in a low voice, "Does the Order have, er, a test? To tell if I might be pregnant?"

Alicia's jaw dropped. "Oh, Hermione -- no. _Please_ tell me that you and Cedric . . . have you missed a period?"

Hermione frowned, surprised by the question although she shouldn't have been. "I'm not sure," she said, stomach dropping as she realized that, in fact, she quite possibly _had_. "Maybe so."

Until that moment, she'd been operating on theory, seeking a way to prove or disprove a hypothesis. She hadn't really had a _reason_ to think she might be pregnant. Yet one pragmatic question from Alicia had turned all that on its head.

Alicia ran a hand over her face. "All right. No need to panic. If it's true, we can take care of it as soon as exams are over, and before you have to go home for the summer." She paused and looked at Hermione. "I assume you don't intend to _keep_ it?"

Said that way, Hermione knew the other girl thought she'd be an idiot even to consider it, yet Hermione had never, ever expected to be in this position in this first place, and now that she was, found the choice unexpectedly confusing. She didn't want this baby and heaven knew she wasn't old enough to be anyone's mother. Yet the idea that she might have a part of Cedric inside her . . . It wasn't so easy to dismiss when it ceased to be hypothetical.

"I'm not even sure I'm pregnant," she told Alicia now. "I did skip a period -- but I do that before exams sometimes. I'm not exactly regular. And Cedric and I _hav_e been careful. It's just that, well, I've never had to think about . . . this . . . as possible before."

Alicia appeared relieved. "The spells are pretty effective, Hermione, unless they're miscast. If you've both been careful, and you tend to miss periods anyway, why don't we worry about it _after_ exams? If your period doesn't start in another few days, we'll mix the potion to test you." It was clear that Alicia hoped any crisis could be delayed in favor of studying.

"I'd rather not wait," Hermione pressed. "I need to know. Worry about it is making it hard to concentrate." She couldn't say she _had_ to know before tomorrow night.

Sighing, the other girl ran a hand into her hair. "Fine, I'll talk to Patricia about it. She's the best at potions. She'll have a test ready for you in the morning. When you go to pee, save some in a beaker or something -- and make sure the glass is good and clean first."

"Morning!" Hermione practically shrieked. "This can't wait till tomorrow! Tomorrow is the 21st of June! I have to know today!"

Puzzled, Alicia cocked her head. "What does it being the 21st of June have to do with anything? You know perfectly well that some potions take time to brew. It'll be ready by morning. Now go to dinner and quit worrying about it, okay? You probably aren't."

So Hermione went to dinner, but the sight of the heavy, greasy food made her nauseous. In fact, she'd been nauseous several times these past few weeks but hadn't thought anything of that, either; it was another normal reaction of hers before important tests. But what if -- this time -- it meant more?

Turning on her heel, she ran from the Great Hall for the courtyard where she sank down on the summer grass beneath a willow. This couldn't be happening. She couldn't really be _pregnant_, could she? First the whole castle had found out she'd been sleeping with Cedric and now she was going to turn up pregnant? She was starting to sound like a statistic. Clever girls, good girls, didn't get themselves into this pickle.

"Hermione?" It was Harry and she looked up. "What made you run out?"

What on earth should she say? She couldn't tell him the truth. She didn't even know if it were true. "Nothing," she lied. "Well, I just -- my stomach doesn't feel too well. Nerves."

Harry sat down beside her and handed over some bread. "Try to eat that, at least. The exam'll go pretty late tonight and Cedric'll have my head if I let you faint in the middle of it."

Taking the bread, she laughed, fearing it sounded a bit hysterical, and wondered what Cedric would say when she told him_ this_ news? Would he still want anything to do with her?

_You're being ridiculous_, she told herself -- making a mountain out of a molehill. She had to stop thinking about it. She wouldn't know anything for sure until tomorrow, and had her next-to-last exam tonight. "How have you been?" she asked Harry instead.

"What?" He blinked, confused. "What do you mean how have _I _been?"

She leaned in closer to whisper, "The dreams, Harry. You're not still having those dreams?"

He shook his head quickly. "The only dreams I'm having are about showing up to my exam without my trousers."

That made her laugh, but she also wasn't sure she believed him. Standing, she offered him a hand. "We'd better get going. We still have a little time left to study."

Harry's lips twitched. "That's my Hermione."

* * *

_1. "Describe the standard major components of a 'personal computer' (PC), and give three uses for which one might be employed in a Muggle business."_

Grinning, Cedric set his quill to parchment, intensely grateful for the hours Dr. Granger had spent demonstrating how to use one. By the time he was finished with the whole Muggle Studies exam seven essay questions later, he was fairly certain he'd scored an O, but was sorely wishing for Dr. Granger's printer. After days of writing frantically, his hand was killing him. Shaking it, he turned in his parchment to Rosmerta and followed her out of the upper chamber where he'd been sitting his written exams in the afternoon. Esiban trailed at his heels. It was a bit early for dinner, but he wanted something to drink -- preferably alcoholic. As there was no practical in Muggle Studies, he was done for the day.

In the pub below, he found his mother seated at a corner table, sketching the handful of patrons with quick, decisive strokes of her quill. She'd never handled idleness well. "You know you could go home, mum. You don't have to stick around waiting for me to finish my tests."

"I'm not going anywhere," she replied without looking up, her eye still on an elderly witch puffing at a pipe and chatting with Rosmerta at the bar. "Tomorrow when you're finished, we'll leave to visit our cousin" -- meaning Sirius -- "and you'll stay put there until the end of the school year."

Making a face, he scratched the raccoon perched in his lap. "I'm being _grounded_?"

His mother finally looked up at him. "You're being kept out of trouble since you don't seem able to stay out of it yourself."

They hadn't discussed the reasons for his expulsion since her initial owl to him. "Mum, you know Umbridge stole my journal. It's not as if -- "

"She stole it because you gave her the opportunity. You and Hermione haven't been careful, Cedric. Do you really need for me to list all the chances the two of you have taken?"

"We _were_ careful." He bent low over the table, speaking in an undertone. "And I can't believe you're shirty about me sleeping with her. _You_ were the one who told me to stop pretending!"

"Oh, for heaven's sake, this isn't about that. It's about being responsible. If you're not old enough to act like an adult about it, you're not old enough to do it."

"I told you, we were careful -- "

"Need I remind you of the incident in the prefects' bathroom?"

Tremendously annoyed at what he thought unreasonable chastisement, he snapped back, "I don't suppose _you_ were ever in love with my father enough to know what it feels like to be completely mad about somebody!" Then realizing what he'd said, he felt the blood drain out of his face. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean that."

"Yes, you did." Her voice and eyes were cool. "Yes. You did."

Not sure what to say next, he looked down at the table, feeling as anxious as he'd been on the Friday he'd stood before Minister Fudge. "It's not my place -- "

"No, it isn't. But if you have a question, why don't you simply ask it? Don't assume."

And the anger surged back, replacing embarrassed anxiety. "Did you ever love him? Fudge said something to me -- 'sexual misconduct' must run in our family. And 'like father like son.'" He looked up at her. "What the bloody hell was he talking about, mum?"

She sighed, looking almost . . . old . . . for a moment. Running a hand through her hair, she said, "I suppose it's time you heard the whole story -- and from me, not the Minister, or the paper."

He waited, very still inside and a little frightened.

"You know my family held no approval for my painting. 'Malfoys buy paintings, they don't make them.'" Her brows drew together. "I was my father's only child, intended to make a proper marriage to a proper pureblood and produce very proper, perfect children. But painting was all I ever wanted. Your father believed in that -- believed in me. He was Gryffindor's Keeper, a seventh year. I was a sixth year and prefect, but like you, came of age early. You know all this." Cedric nodded. Like all children, he'd asked his parents how they'd met and had loved to hear the story. He also knew that his mother had never returned for her seventh year. To be a painter, she hadn't needed her NEWTs -- just her skill, and that, she'd had in spades. She and his father had eloped and fled to Italy to escape her father's anger.

It seemed there was a bit more to it.

"I was pregnant."

His jaw dropped. "But -- "

"And we made certain the entire castle knew it. If we hadn't, my father would've simply spirited me away and taken care of it, and that would have been that."

"_You tricked my father?_"

Pursing her lips, she glared at him. "I said 'we.' Amos knew exactly what he was doing the same as you knew when you agreed not to contest your expulsion in order to protect Hermione. You and he -- you're much alike, you know.

"We planned it, timed the 'discovery' for maximum effect -- after Easter holidays but still with time before his exams."

"Dumbledore didn't expel you both?"

"Of course not; he understood what we were doing, and why. I'm not certain he approved, but we were both of age and it was by mutual consent. He did make certain the entire castle knew -- which was precisely what we wanted."

"So _your_ father -- "

"I was in disgrace, carrying the child of a middle-class wizard with Muggle blood in his veins. Of course he disowned me. When the school year was over, I married your father and we planned to leave for Florence where I could study."

"And the baby?"

"Would have been your older sister. I went into labor at 22 weeks. I was told she lived not quite a minute."

Her face was still; no emotion crossed it, but he knew exactly what each unsuccessful pregnancy had cost her. "That was Perpetua," he said.

"Yes, Perpetua."

The baby had been given a name and buried in the Diggory family graveyard. He'd seen her grave, along with that of his younger brother, Alexander. His mother's second pregnancy hadn't lasted long enough to be called anything but a miscarriage. There was no grave to mark that. He'd always wondered about his dead sister's name. "That's why you named her after a martyr?"

"She was a sacrifice. At the time, I thought it was stress and sorrow that made me lose her. Later, I learned better."

He was silent a while, contemplating everything. Finally, he said, "So history repeats itself."

"History never repeats itself, Cedric. That's a myth. Every situation is unique."

He frowned. "Yeah. I suppose everything was a bit more accidental for us."

She bent her head slightly. "Indeed. And that is why you're going back to London. Despite what you believe, I'm not punishing you. I'm protecting you."

* * *

Her astronomy exam was the first test in years that Hermione had failed to finish, and she wondered if any consideration would be given to the fact that the end of their exam had been completely disrupted. Yet where once she'd have been frantic about possibly failing, she'd learned a bit of perspective that year. There were greater concerns.

Not only had Hagrid been sacked, but McGonagall had been taken from them too. And the Gryffindor common room was in a complete uproar when she and the rest of the fifth years returned to it late Wednesday night. "But why sack Hagrid now?" Angelina Johnson was saying, waving her arms a bit dramatically so that her braids swayed. "It's not like Trelawney; he's been teaching much better than usual this year!"

"Umbridge hates part-humans," Hermione said, flopping down in a red armchair. She wanted to weep, but kept her face expressionless. "She was always going to try and get Hagrid out."

"And she thought Hagrid was putting nifflers in her office," Katie Bell added.

"Oh blimey!" That was Lee Jordan, his face guilty. "It's me's been putting the nifflers in her office, Fred and George left me a couple, I've been levitating them in through her window . . . "

"She'd have sacked him anyway," Dean said and Hermione could only nod. "He was too close to Dumbledore. Like Cedric." Everyone in the room glanced her way but she was too tired to react.

"That's true," Harry said, settling down in the matching red armchair to Hermione's.

"I just hope Professor McGonagall is all right," Lavender whispered, wiping tears off her face.

"They carried her back up to the castle, we watched through the dormitory window," said Colin Creevey. "She didn't look very well . . . "

"Madam Pomfrey will sort her out," Alicia Spinnet reassured them all. "She's never failed yet."

Except with Cedric, but everyone had failed there. Hermione leaned her head against the back of the chair and let the voices wash over her, rising and falling. Hot tears gathered behind her closed eyelids and a few slid free despire her attempt to stop them. She just felt so beaten down and uncertain about what to do next. The year was almost over; she kept repeating that to herself. It was all that she had to cling to. A week and a half and she could see Cedric again. She'd never so looked forward to the end of school in her life . . .

She woke when a hand shook her shoulder lightly. "Hermione?" It was Harry, Ron behind him. "Everybody's gone up to bed. You should too."

"What time is it?" she asked, sitting up and wiping sand from her eyes.

"Almost four. You don't have an exam in the morning, do you?"

"No, just History of Magic with you two."

He nodded. "Go to bed then."

Nodding, she did as he said, too tired to think at all, or even undress when she reached her bed. Kicking off her shoes, she just crawled in after being certain her alarm was set, glad she'd studied enough that she had the luxury of sleeping even if it meant skipping breakfast.

It was after noon before she woke. Pulling herself out of bed, she headed for the toilet, remembering to grab the little vial she'd washed, to collect a urine sample. She hadn't forgotten about the pregnancy test.

Unfortunately, Alicia and Patricia had. They were nowhere to be found in Gryffindor Tower, and there was no potion that she could see -- not even evidence that Patricia had been working on one when Hermione checked her dormitory. "Bugger," Hermione muttered to herself as she dressed to go downstairs, hoping to find one of the two, but neither was about. Angelina, however, still sat over a late lunch, her nose in a text. Hermione sat beside her. "Angelina?"

"Yes?" Angelina didn't even look up from her book.

"Do you know where Patricia is?"

"Library, I think."

So Hermione grabbed a pair of rolls and some cheese, and went up to the library. But either Angelina had been wrong or Patricia had left already. It was after one. Her exam would begin soon. Her head felt foggy and her body numb, and she'd have been panicking about her exam except that she was more panicked about the painting. Heading back down to the Entrance Hall, she stopped in front of it and stared.

Nothing. There was still nothing there -- had been nothing since the afternoon the buck had fallen. She didn't even know if he'd finally died. He'd simply disappeared from the picture and nothing had been seen in the frame since, beyond the occasional bird or forest creature. Maybe Mrs. Diggory had been right and Cedric was in no danger. If the painting were going to threaten his life, it would be showing the start of Mid-Summer festivals, wouldn't it?

She watched the empty frame for half an hour before giving up and heading into the Great Hall for her last exam: History of Magic. Despite Binns, she felt fairly confident about this one, having studied with Cedric. He had an aptitude for history and such, just as she did for Arithmancy.

Seated at a desk behind Harry's, she noticed him drift off several times while writing, and would have hissed at him if not for fear of being thought cheating.

She was working on the last question, one that involved goblin rebellions, when she noticed he really had fallen asleep, wasn't just sinking in and out. Sighing to herself, she returned to her essay and the concluding paragraphs. She had only a few sentences left when abruptly, he slapped a hand over the scar on his forehead and started to scream.

* * *

**  
****Notes: **At both the end of this chapter and virtually all the next chapter in Hermione's section, the dialogue is lifted straight from _The Order of the Phoenix_ with a few slight alterations. Obviously the narrative isn't, as it's seen from a different view. (Yes, that includes 'smart plan' instead of 'clever plan' -- Rowling's word choice, not mine.)

**Reviews are cherished. We are very near the end. Let me know what you think.**


	35. Giant Problem

Hermione _knew_ her plan to use Umbridge's fire in order for Harry to contact Sirius at Grimmauld Place was quite mad, but Harry wasn't listening to reason. He firmly believed Voldemort had Sirius at the Ministry of Magic, and was prepared to go barreling down to London based solely on a dream. Therefore letting him see that Sirius was safe at home was the best thing she could think of under the circumstances. That doing so was risky at best and downright mad at worst had not escaped her. It just seemed the lesser of two evils.

So with the assistance of Ron, as well as Ginny and Luna Lovegood -- who'd heard Harry shouting at her in an empty classroom and come to investigate -- Hermione had put together a plan. Ron was sent to divert Umbridge, Ginny and Luna were assigned to keep people away from the corridor containing Umbridge's office, and she herself would accompany Harry into the office while he contacted Sirius through Umbridge's fireplace, as he had once before. He said he'd need only five minutes.

At first, everything seemed to go so well. The crowd thinned as Ginny's fiction about Garroting Gas in the corridor got around, allowing Hermione and Harry to slink down to Umbridge's door under his invisibility cloak. He used the knife that Sirius had given him to get inside, just as he had when he'd sneaked in to look for Cedric's journal. And oh, how she wished Cedric were still here. He might have been able to talk Harry out of this. (Although privately, she doubted it. When convinced of something, Harry was as stubborn as any Hufflepuff.)

Finally they were inside, and no alarms went off, no extra security. Shutting the door, they pulled off the cloak. Prepared to stand guard, Hermione drew her wand while Harry hurried to the fireplace and lost no time in Flooing Grimmauld Place. Hermione could hear the vague echoes of Harry's voice, shouting at someone. She didn't think it was Sirius.

And oh, heavens -- what if Sirius weren't _there_? What if . . . what if Harry were _right_? What if Voldemort did have Sirius?

But she couldn't quite believe that. It made no sense at all -- too much the sort of thing the Dark Lord might try to convince Harry of, knowing Harry's propensity for rescuing people in trouble.

She was so busy thinking about all this that she missed the quiet turning of the doorknob. Then it burst open and a red-faced Umbridge entered to aim her wand directly at Hermione, Silencing her before Hermione could get out a noise to warn Harry, or cast a shielding spell. For that matter, there had been no warning chorus of "Weasley is our King!" either, and Hermione understood why in the next instant as not only Ginny and Luna were marched into the office, but also Neville and Susan Bones. How on earth had Neville and Susan got involved in this, Hermione wondered?

Umbridge nearly flew to the fire to yank a startled and white-faced Harry out of it. She had him by the hair and craned his head back so far Hermione feared she might snap his neck. "You think," she snarled, "that after two nifflers I was going to let one more foul, scavenging little creature enter my office without my knowledge? I had Stealth Sensoring Spells placed all around my doorway after the last one got in, you foolish boy."

And that was why Hermione hadn't felt anything when they'd entered. How utterly stupid of her not to check for such things, but in her fear for Harry -- and her desperate need to stop him -- she'd quite lost her head.

"Take his wand. Hers too."

Hermione watched Draco Malfoy slide forward to grope inside Harry's robes for his wand even as Pansy Parkinson yanked hers out of her hand while Millicent Bulstrode held her still.

Warrington had just entered, frog-marching Ron in front of him, "Got 'em all!" he crowed triumphantly, then pointed to Neville. "_That_ one tried to stop me from taking her" -- he indicated Ginny, which explained Neville's presence. "And _that_ one" -- he indicated Susan -- "told me I didn't have the 'authority' to grab anybody, so I brought them both along too."

"Good, good," Umbridge said, little pig-eyes watching Ginny fight against Goyle's restraint. "Well, it looks as if Hogwarts will soon be a Weasley-free zone, doesn't it?"

The Slytherins all laughed obediently as Umbridge settled down in a chintz floral armchair. "So, Potter, you stationed lookouts around my office and you sent this buffoon" -- she nodded to Ron -- "to tell me the poltergeist was wreaking havoc in the Transfiguration department when I knew perfectly well that he was busy smearing ink on the eyepieces of all the school telescopes, Mr. Filch having just informed me so."

And oh, that was why Hermione hadn't wanted to rush this! They should have checked better to get their story straight.

"Clearly, it was very important for you to talk to somebody. Was it Albus Dumbledore? Or the half-breed, Hagrid? Or maybe Cedric Diggory? I doubt it was Minerva McGonagall, I hear she's still too ill to talk to anyone."

Which got laughs from the Slytherins and made Hermoine struggle in Millicent's grasp. How dare that _horrible_ woman talk about Professor McGonagall that way!

"It's none of your business who I talk to," Harry snapped back.

"Very well," Umbridge replied in that maddening 'telephone voice' she adopted when she wanted to sound reasonable even while acting unconscionable. "Very well, Mr. Potter . . . I offered you the chance to tell me freely. You refused. I have no alternative but to force you. Draco, fetch Professor Snape."

Hermione sighed and all her muscles relaxed. Umbridge had inadvertently called the one adult member of the Order still at Hogwarts -- the one person who could still help them. She struggled against Millicent, but more for show than in earnest. Time ticked by. No one spoke.

Finally Snape appeared behind Draco in the doorway. "You wanted to see me, Headmistress?" There was just a touch of a sneer in his voice, and his eyes were cold as he swept his gaze over them all, but Hermione didn't miss that he _had _noted each one of them as if ticking them off mentally.

"Ah, Professor Snape!" Umbridge rose to her feet and simpered at him. "Yes, I would like another bottle of Veritaserum, as quick as you can, please."

Veritaserum! Hermione nearly squeaked. That was . . . completely illegal to use on an underage wizard. Professor Snape certainly wouldn't --

"You took my last bottle to interrogate Potter," he said. "Surely you did not use it all? I told you that three drops would be sufficient."

Umbridge turned red and Hermione had to admire the fact that Professor Snape had the temerity to embarrass the woman, even while being horrified that he'd ever agreed to give her a bottle of the stuff in the first place. Whose side was he on? She knew Harry would say the other side, but Hermione was also well aware that Harry was blind when it came to Snape. Hermione had always been more willing to grant the man the benefit of the doubt, but _this_ . . .

"You can make some more, can't you?" Umbridge was saying.

"Certainly," Snape replied, "It takes a full moon cycle to mature, so I should have it ready for you in around a month."

Umbridge's eyes bulged and Hermione had to bite her tongue to resist laughing. "A month! A _month_?" Umbridge shrieked. "But I need it this evening, Snape! I have just found Potter using my fire to communicate with a person or persons unknown!"

"Really?" Snape drawled, appearing at once interested and amused. "Well, it doesn't surprise me. Potter has never shown much inclination to follow school rules."

He was staring hard at Harry, who was staring equally hard back. Hermione wondered what he was thinking, or perhaps . . . wasn't Snape a Legilimens too? Could he read Harry's mind? Could he read hers if she could just catch his eye?

"I wish to interrogate him!" Umbridge was saying, like a petulant toddler convinced that her mere insistence would compel others to grant her desires. "I wish you to provide me with a potion that will force him to tell me the truth!"

"I have already told you that I have no further stocks of Veritaserum. Unless you wish to poison Potter -- and I assure you I would have the greatest sympathy with you if you did -- I cannot help you. The only trouble is that most venoms act too fast to give the victim much time for truth-telling . . . "

It was sly and snide and perfect, and Hermione wanted to hug him despite the fact he really was a cruel and sarcastic bastard much of the time. But just now . . . just now, he was helping them and thwarting Umbridge, so she could almost forgive him for providing Veritaserum to Umbridge earlier. (Maybe it hadn't been real Veritaserum? Maybe he'd slipped her a placebo? Hermione didn't want to believe Professor Snape would have provided Dolores Umbridge with the means to break the law.)

"You are on probation!" Umbridge howled now, completely beside herself. "You are being deliberately unhelpful! I expected better; Lucius Malfoy always speaks most highly of you! Now get out of my office!"

Snape gave her an ironic bow before turning to leave --

"He's got Padfoot!" Harry shouted, his face a mask of desperation. "He's got Padfoot at the place where it's hidden!"

"Oh, no . . . " Hermione moaned beneath her breath. "Harry . . . "

Snape had stopped to glance around even as Umbridge appeared ready to pounce. "Padfoot?" she cried, gripping Harry's sleeve and looking at Snape. "What is Padfoot? Where what is hidden? What is he talking about, Snape?"

"I have no idea," Snape replied in a sepulchral voice, and Hermione couldn't tell if he really hadn't understood or were only pretending. "Potter, when I want nonsense shouted at me, I shall give you a Babbling Beverage. And Crabbe, loosen your hold a little. If Longbottom suffocates it will mean a lot of tedious paperwork, and I am afraid I shall have to mention it on your reference if ever you apply for a job."

Hermione gasped half in laughter at his cheek, and half in horror as he shut the door behind him, taking their last hope with him. Had he understood or not? He'd given no hint at all, but at least he knew they were in trouble, and both Remus Lupin and Lucy Diggory were not far away in Hogsmeade. Counting Snape, that made three members of the Order close by. However much Snape might hate Harry, he would do his duty, wouldn't he? He'd helped Mrs. Diggory enter the castle without Umbridge knowing it. Surely he'd fetch help now? Mrs. Diggory would know what to do if Snape didn't.

In any case, Umbridge was thwarted. Hermione watched the other woman pace and mutter as she realized she had no means to make Harry talk, and that, in turn, led Hermione to consider what they should do next. No doubt Umbridge would try to expel them all, which put her in mind of Cedric's sacrifice for her sake. She and Harry had trespassed quite a number of school rules by breaking into Umbridge's office, but Neville and Susan shouldn't suffer -- they'd been innocent bystanders who'd spoken up at the wrong moment. Perhaps even Ginny and Luna and Ron could be saved, although Umbridge had sounded eager to rid herself of all the Weasleys. Nonetheless, if she had a willing sacrifice in Hermione -- if Hermione admitted to having planned the whole thing (which wasn't even a lie), and claimed the other five weren't involved, perhaps Umbridge would be satisfied. Right now, she must hate Hermione only a little less than Harry and Cedric.

She opened her mouth to speak even as Umbridge raised her own voice as if having finally talked herself into something. "Very well, very well . . . I am left with no alternative." Pulling her wand, she aimed it at Harry, and Hermione felt her eyes widen. "This is more than a matter of school discipline . . . As with Diggory, this is an issue of Ministry security . . . Yes, yes . . .

"You are forcing me, Potter . . . I do not want to but sometimes circumstances justify the use . . . I am sure the Minister will understand that I had no choice. The Cruciatus Curse ought to loosen your tongue."

"_No!_" Hermione found herself shouting. The woman couldn't be _serious_? "Professor Umbridge, it's illegal -- !"

Wand raised, Umbridge ignored her. The woman's cheeks were flushed, eyes dilated, expression _eager_ . . .

. . . and Hermione _recognized_ that look. It was the same one Umbridge had turned on Harry in classes, or on Cedric when taunting him with Esiban. Yet till now, it had always been a bit muted so Hermione hadn't fully understood. In fact, until a few months ago, she wouldn't have known enough to identify it anyway. Now she did, and the hairs on the nape of her neck rose.

Umbridge was _aroused_. Sexually aroused. How positively _revolting_. And Fudge had loosed this woman on a _school_?

Fudge. Yes, Fudge . . . maybe the threat of being exposed . . . "The Minister wouldn't want you to break the law, Professor Umbridge!"

"What Cornelius doesn't know won't hurt him." Umbridge sounded almost transported as she aimed her wand at various parts of Harry's body, as if deciding what to hex. "He never knew," she went on, almost conversationally, "that I ordered dementors after Potter last summer, but he was delighted to be given the chance to expel him, all the same -- "

"That was _you_?" Harry bellowed, taking the words right out of Hermione's mouth. "_You_ sent the dementors after me?"

"_Somebody_ had to act," Umbridge said, halting her wand tip an inch from Harry's forehead. "They were all bleating about silencing you somehow -- discrediting you -- but I was the one who actually _did_ something about it . . . Only you wriggled out of that one, didn't you, Potter? Not today, though, not now . . . "

Hermione could scarcely breathe. Any hope she'd had that she might reason with Umbridge had vanished when the woman had admitted to summoning the dementors. She wasn't just sadistic, she was completely depraved -- a murderer, or as good as. And she was going to torture Harry --

"_Cru--!_"

"_No!_" Hermione shrieked, pushed by desperation into a pellucid state of thought where her alternatives were as clear as fine, blown glass. "No -- Harry -- Harry, we'll have to tell her . . . "

"No way!" Harry objected, face enraged.

"We'll have to, Harry, or she'll force it out of you anyway . . . what's . . . what's the point . . . ?" She pretended to break down and sob, leaning against Millicent Bulstrode, who jerked away, face disgusted.

But it had worked. Umbridge's attention was away from Harry. "Well, well, well. Little Miss Question-All is going to give us some answers! Come on then, girl, come on!" She advanced on Hermione.

"Er-my-nee-no!" Ron gasped through Crabbe's choke-hold, while Ginny, Neville and Susan were all gaping. But behind Umbridge's back, Harry's expression had gone from white-faced shock to . . . something shrewder. Maybe he'd caught on.

"I'm -- I'm sorry everyone," Hermione said. "But -- I can't stand it. First Cedric, now Harry . . . "

Let Umbridge think she'd been pushed past her ability to cope. "That's right, that's right, girl!" Umbridge was gripping her by the shoulders and shoving her down into the ugly floral chintz she'd occupied herself earlier. "Now then . . . with whom was Potter communicating just now?"

Hermione used the excuse of wiping her eyes and face to finalize her thoughts. "Well," she said, voice a little sigh of defeat, "well, he was _trying_ to speak to Professor Dumbledore."

And it was a very good thing Umbridge was watching Hermione's face or she'd have noticed the complete surprise on the faces of Ginny and Ron, Susan and Neville -- even Luna. Harry's face didn't change, but he'd already figured it out. Like Cedric, he had a touch of Slytherin in him.

And it was Lucy Diggory in the forefront of Hermione's thoughts**: **_Think like Cedric's mum. _Umbridge had no sense of morals, no limits. She'd have tortured Harry to get what she wanted, then Obliviated them all, or perhaps even killed them to keep them from talking. Right now, it was kill or be killed, as far as Hermione was concerned.

"Dumbledore," Umbridge asked now, all eager. So predictable. "You know where Dumbledore is, then?"

"Well . . . no!" Hermione replied, pretending a bit of hysteria. "We've tried the Leaky Cauldron in Diagon Alley and the Three Broomsticks and even the Hog's Head -- "

"Idiot girl, Dumbledore won't be sitting in a pub when the whole Ministry's looking for him!" Disappointment pulled at Umbridge's face and Hermione had to bite her tongue to hide her smile. Let the woman believe she was thick. It was what Umbridge thought of a 'mere Muggle-born' anyway.

Pressing hands to her face, Hermione sobbed, "But -- but we needed to tell him something important!"

"Yes? What was it you wanted to tell him?"

"We . . . we wanted to tell him it's r-ready."

Grabbing Hermione, Umbridge shook her. "What's ready? What's ready, girl?" Umbridge had yet to use her name, she considered her so unimportant.

"The . . . the weapon," Hermione gasped.

"Weapon? Weapon?" Umbridge sounded positively gleeful; she was so easy to lead. "You have been developing some method of resistance? A weapon you could use against the Ministry? On Professor Dumbledore's orders, of course?"

"Y-y-yes," Hermione breathed. "But he had to leave before it was finished and n-n-now we've finished it for him, and we c-c-can't find him t-t-to tell him!"

What kind of weapon is it?"

"We don't r-really understand it." Umbridge thought them all idiots in any case. "We j-just did what P-P-Professor Dumbledore told us t-t-to do . . . "

"Show me the weapon," Umbridge demanded.

Hermione concealed her exultant grin. Now it remained only to convince Umbridge to dismiss her toadies by playing on her fears, her arrogance . . . "I'm not showing _them_," Hermione said, pointing to Draco and the others.

"It isn't for you to set conditions," Umbridge snapped.

"Fine." Hermione had doubted it would be that easy. "Fine . . . let them see it, I hope they use it on you! In fact, I wish you'd invite loads and loads of people to come and see! Th-that would serve you right -- oh, I'd love it if the wh-whole school knew where it was, and how to u-use it, and then if you annoy any of them, they'll be able to s-sort you out!"

And Umbridge reacted exactly as Hermione had expected -- with fear. People like her were always afraid of anybody who might gain enough power to be a threat. She eyed the rest in the room, then studied Hermione, finally saying, "All right, dear, let's make it just you and me . . . and we'll take Potter too, shall we? Get up, now -- "

"Professor Umbridge," Malfoy interrupted. "I think some of us should come with you to look after -- "

"I am a fully qualified Ministry official, Malfoy, do you really think I cannot manage two wandless teenagers alone?" Umbridge tried to glare imperiously at him, but being so much shorter, the effect was more amusing than threatening. "In any case, it does not sound as though this weapon is something that schoolchildren should see. You will remain here until I return and make sure none of these" -- she gestured to the rest -- "escape."

Sulky, Malfoy agreed, "All right."

"And you two can go ahead of me and show me the way." Umbridge pointed her wand at Harry and Hermione. "Go on . . . "

On the way out the door, Hermione shot Ron, Ginny and Susan what she hoped was a significant glance. She was counting on them to get rid of their captors. But even if they couldn't, she had what she wanted -- Umbridge on her own and without support.

The doe was about to crush the snake.

* * *

Cedric was actually in the midst of his last exam when the door burst open to reveal Peter, Scott, Ed and Susan Bones. "What the -- ?"

"You can't come in here," Madam Rosmerta snapped. "This is an _exam_."

"We know," Scott said, offering her his most charming grin. "But it's a bit of an emergency." He turned to Cedric, and his expression said enough. "How close are you to being done, mate?"

Cedric looked down at his exam. One question left past the one he was answering . . . "Give me a minute." Bending, he scribbled out three concluding sentences and offered the parchment to Rosmerta. "Done." He wasn't, but they wouldn't have come here like this if it weren't really a crisis. He'd left just one question unanswered and knew he'd done well on the others. It would pass. It might not be an O, but it would pass.

Rosmerta took the parchment, her lips pursed in disapproval, but she wasn't going to argue with him. With a glance at the others, she headed out. Cedric grabbed his crutches and stood, jerking his head to call them over to him. "What is it?"

"Umbridge has Hermione and Harry," Susan interrupted.

"_What?_"

"She took them off towards the Forbidden Forest. It's a long story, but Umbridge caught Harry in her office using her fire to talk to someone -- I'm not sure who -- and Hermione pulled out this cockeyed story about Dumbledore and a weapon and -- "

There were feet on the stairs -- his mother, most like, alerted by Rosmerta. She was bound and determined to take him to London, but there was no way in hell he was leaving if Umbridge had Hermione. "We've got to go," he said, adding softly, "_Gate,_" hoping they understood. And with a set of his crutches, a step and twist --

-- he came out at the front gate to Hogwarts. Pulling his wand, he aimed it at the gate and blasted it open even as he heard pops behind him. Ed-with-Susan, Scott and Peter. "Run and hide," he told them. "She'll guess where we've gone." His mother was no fool. "We'll meet again behind Hagrid's hut in fifteen minutes." And with another twist and blur, he Transformed, wings beating as he zipped off low across the grounds towards the Black Lake. Maybe he couldn't run anymore, but he could fly.

His mother arrived, all right. He was soaring high, coming in from the west and north, hopefully throwing her off so she'd see just another bird, not make a connection to him. She was marching up the road to the front gate of the castle. Excellent. There was quite a lot of Hogwarts to search. Hopefully he could rescue Hermione before she found him, although from here he couldn't catch sight of either Harry or Hermione, or Umbridge. If they were in the forest, they were hidden by the canopy of leaves.

Spiraling down, he took human form again behind Hagrid's hut, then slipped inside, waiting for his friends to arrive. When they did, he motioned them in. "What happened?" he asked Susan as soon as they were all assembled around Hagrid's table. Susan related the whole story, including how she and those left behind had escaped and what Ginny had told her about Harry insisting on talking to Sirius and his fears that Voldemort had Sirius at the Ministry in London.

"Sirius _Black_?" Scott asked. "Isn't he -- "

"Framed," Cedric said, cutting off tangential debate. "It wasn't Sirius who betrayed Lily and James Potter. It was Peter Pettigrew. Pettigrew's not dead. He's the one who almost killed me, last June." He looked at them all. "I'm sorry I didn't tell you before. Dumbledore made me promise not to." In fact, he still couldn't speak a word about the Order even if he thought they all deserved to know. A Fidelius Charm was no joke. "It was better if fewer people knew. But yeah, Sirius Black isn't who the papers say; he was loyal to the Potters. He's Harry's godfather and Harry would do anything to save him -- even something completely mental."

"Well, that explains it," Susan muttered. "Because he's certainly _acting_ mental!"

"They went into the forest?"

"That's where they were last seen headed. Ron, Ginny, Neville and Luna went after them. I went to alert Ed. But I don't know what Hermione's got up to in there. What weapon -- "

And Cedric suddenly knew. His brilliant, brave, completely brainless girlfriend was . . . it must be. "There's a giant in the forest."

"_What?!_" the others nearly shouted.

"Hagrid brought back a giant -- his half-brother. I think Hermione's going to lead Umbridge to him." Although _why_, Cedric feared even to consider.

The others were just staring, mouths agape. "There's an effin' _giant_ in the forest?" Scott asked, as if he couldn't have heard that right.

"Yeah," Cedric replied. "His name's Grawp."

"Giants have names?" Ed asked.

Susan thwacked him. "So now what do we do?"

"I'm going flying -- see if I can spot him. If I can find the giant, maybe -- "

"Cedric," Peter interrupted. "I'm sorry mate, but I've got to be brutal here. You're not going to face a giant on crutches. That's just not _realistic_."

Cedric glared, but the others wore expressions that told him they were thinking the same even if they hadn't wanted to say so. "I'm not _helpless_."

"Far from it," Scott replied. "But a blind man can't fly a broom, and you can't run, Ced. We're not going to lie to spare your damn feelings if it might get you killed, right? There's a lot you can do -- but there are some things you can't."

"Fuck you," Cedric snapped back. "I can _fly_."

"If you can get in the air fast enough. Don't be thick and idiotically brave. Go up in the air, see if you can spot them, then come let us know, right? For once in your life, trust your friends, eh?"

"I do trust -- "

"No, you don't," Scott snapped back, almost rising from his seat. "You always keep your damn distance."

Cedric looked around the table, but found no support. "It's true," Peter told him.

"The best way we can help Potter and Hermione is to work together," Ed added. "You find where the giant is, come back and let us know, and we'll head in that direction. Pass the Quaffle, right? The main point is getting them back safe."

For a moment, Cedric wanted to resist, but they were right. "Okay," he said finally. "I'll . . . pass the Quaffle."

* * *

Hermione watched with confused horror as the centaurs carried off Umbridge. She'd known she was playing with fire, but the situation had been desperate -- she'd had to stop Umbridge from torturing Harry, and had thought the centaurs might frighten Umbridge off, or even escort the woman to the edge of the forest and throw her out, letting Hermione and Harry get away. She hadn't reckoned on Umbridge's hatred of non-humans being so great she'd continue to say inflammatory things even when at an obvious disadvantage, but Hermione had never completely understood overweening ethnocentrism and it had proved to be a fatal flaw in her plan. Now, the herd of centaurs had picked up Umbridge and were bearing her off deeper into the forest and even if it wasn't what she'd intended, Hermione couldn't help but think Umbridge had been hoisted on her own petard.

So when the centaur's focus turned to her and Harry, she pleaded, "Please don't attack us -- we don't think like her; we aren't Ministry of Magic employees! We only came in here because we hoped you'd drive her off for us -- "

"You see, Ronan," a gray centaur interrupted. "They already have the arrogance of their kind! So we were to do you dirty work, were we, human girl? We were to act as your servants, drive away your enemies like obedient hounds?"

"No!" Hermione protested, appalled. She hadn't meant it like that at all; couldn't they see? "Please -- I didn't mean that! I just hoped you'd be able to -- help us -- "

"We do not help humans!" snapped another. "We are a race apart and proud to be so . . . we will not permit you to walk from here, boasting that we did your bidding!"

Harry lost his temper. "We're not going to say anything like that! We know you didn't do anything because we wanted you to -- "

"They came here unasked," said an older centaur, ignoring Harry entirely, "they must pay the consequences!" And that won a roar of approval.

"They can join the woman!"

Abject terror seized Hermione. Why couldn't the centaurs understand that she and Harry hadn't meant anything disrespectful, and neither of them saw the centaurs as lesser. After all, wasn't she the champion of house-elf liberation? She wanted equality for everybody. "You said you didn't hurt the innocent!" she shouted, tears of anger and fear pricking her eyes. "We haven't done anything to hurt you, we haven't used wands or threats, we just want to go back to school. We're not like her; can't you see that? Please let us go back."

"We are not all like the traitor Firenze, human girl!" It was the angry gray centaur, the one completely unreasonable in his hatred of humans, apparently. "Perhaps you thought us pretty talking horses?" Hermione shook her head violently, but he wasn't listening. It was so very _unfair_, she thought. Why wouldn't they listen to her? "We are an ancient people who will not stand wizard invasions and insults! We do not recognize your laws, we do not acknowledge your superiority, we are -- "

But a crashing in the bush and trees beyond kept him from continuing as Hagrid's half-brother Grawp pushed apart two small tree trunks and looked into the clearing. Hermoine wasn't sure if they'd just gone from the frying pan into the fire, but at least the focus of the centaurs was off of her and Harry.

Apparently, Grawp was looking for Hagrid, not realizing his brother had been driven off the night before, and he'd pulled himself free of his bindings in order to do so. Hermione might have been more astonished that the giant seemed genuinely to miss Hagrid, except the impromptu skirmish between Grawp and the centaurs provided her and Harry with the opportunity to escape. The centaurs had pulled bows and begun shooting at Grawp.

Harry pulled her to her feet from where she'd fallen, and they snuck off into the bushes to watch as an enraged Grawp swatted at the arrows pockmarking his face and upper body, then smashed through trees after the centaurs. "Oh, no," Hermione muttered, hand over her mouth as she sank to the forest loam. "That was horrible. And he might kill them all . . . "

"I'm not that fussed, to be honest," Harry told her, and Hermione stared up at him. How could he be so cold? But his face was twisted with irritation and worry and he turned it all on her.

"Smart plan -- really smart plan. Where do we go from here?"

Still feeling sick to her stomach and scared out of her wits, she replied, "We need to get back to the castle."

"By the time we've done that, Sirius'll probably be dead!"

That annoyed Hermione. She'd done all this to try and make him see reason about Sirius. "Well, we can't do anything without wands. Anyway, Harry, how exactly were you planning to _get_ all the way to London?"

But it wasn't Harry who answered. "Yeah, we were just wondering that too."

She leapt to her feet and Harry spun around even as Ron made his way out of the trees into the clearing, followed by Ginny, Luna and Neville -- but not Susan.

"So," Ron continued, "had any ideas?"

"How did you get free?" asked an amazed Harry as Ron handed him his wand, then passed Hermione hers.

"Couple of Stunners, a Disarming Charm, and Neville brought off a really nice little Impediment Jinx." Despite his obvious black eye, Ron was making it sound like a walk in the park. "But Ginny was best. She got Malfoy -- Bat-Bogey Hex -- it was superb, his whole face was covered in the great flapping things. Anyway, we saw you heading into the forest out of Umbridge's window and followed. What've you done with Madam Toad?"

"She got carried away by a herd of Centaurs," Harry replied, face grimly amused.

"And they left you behind?" Ginny asked.

"No, they got chased off by Grawp."

"Who's Grawp?" Luna asked.

"Where's Susan?" Hermione interrupted.

"Grawp is Hagrid's little brother," Ron said, "And Susan ran to tell Ed Carpenter and the rest of Hufflepuff -- let them keep Slytherin busy. Anyway, never mind that now. Harry, what did you find out in the fire? Has You Know Who got Sirius or -- ?"

"Yes," said Harry, which riveted Hermione's attention. He was _certain_ of that? "Kreacher as good as admitted it; it was him I talked to. I'm sure Sirius is still alive -- I'd know if Voldemort killed him, I think -- but I can't see how we're going to get there to help him."

They all fell silent, and Hermione turned the problem over in her mind. It was too bad none of them were old enough to Apparate, and she didn't think they dared try to Floo --

"Well, we'll have to fly, won't we?" Luna said, as if it were the most sensible and obvious thing in the world.

"Fly on _what_?" Hermione muttered to herself, even as Harry rounded on Luna to ask the same thing. Yet Hermione would never have guessed the answer.

* * *

As it turned out, Cedric and his mates found what had become of Hermione and Harry without any need for Cedric to Transform. No sooner had they stepped outside and looked up into the glaring light of sunset than they were met by the astonishing spectre of six black thestrals rising into the sky above the forest -- headed south. To London? They were carrying riders and Cedric didn't even pause for thought before blurring into eagle form and taking off after them.

He hadn't counted on their supernatural speed. He might be an eagle, but even beating his wings as fast as he could manage, he was slipping behind -- and knew it was simply impossible for him to keep up at this pace all the way to the south of England.

One of the figures on the next-to-last thestral turned slightly, as if trying to see behind her. Hermione. He recognized her wild brown hair. Had she spotted him trying to give chase?

Apparently so, as she let go with one hand long enough to wave frantically at him, motioning him to go back. It almost caused her to lose her balance, and for one moment, his heart leapt into his throat as he prepared to dive after her if she slipped. But she righted herself and turned away, and the gap between him and the thestrals inched greater.

He followed stubbornly for a while but was losing them in the twilight, and finally gave up, turning back and cursing mentally. He was almost exhausted by the time he reached Hagrid's hut again. "Bugger those bloody _idiots_!" he bellowed the moment he was back in human form. Too tired to hold him up, his arms gave way and he wound up flat on his bottom, feeling helpless and scared to death. What did Harry think he was doing, running off to London?

Ed was hauling him up with the help of Peter. "Tell me again," Cedric said to Susan as his friends sat him down on a stump in Hagrid's back yard, "exactly what Ginny told you. Where they're going and what Harry thinks he saw?"

So Susan did. When she was done he rubbed his forehead. "What on earth had possessed Harry to think Voldemort would take Sirius? Could even _get_ to Sirius?"

"Well, apparently they're afraid Sirius might have gone out of . . . wherever it is he's hiding. I didn't quite get that part. But they think he left and was captured."

Possible. Not likely, but possible. Even so, Cedric had his doubts. "How did he know anyway? Harry told me he wasn't getting the nightmares anymore." Bloody liar. "All right, I've got to go after them -- stop them before they can reach the Ministry somehow. Maybe Harry will listen to me. I can Apparate him right to Sirius' -- show him Sirius is fine."

"How the bleedin' hell do you plan to get to _London_, mate?"

"I dunno. Floo to the Ministry?"

"From where?"

"Umbridge's fireplace, where else?" Then he remembered that his mother had gone into the castle. If he went back there, she'd find him and haul him to London, all right -- but not where he needed to be. "Or never mind. I suppose I'll have to Apparate."

"You can't Apparate from here to London. Even Dumbledore might be hard pressed to do that."

"So what do you suggest?" Cedric snarled, growing impatient.

"We go through my house in Manchester," Scott said, as if it were the obvious solution.

"You're not going along -- "

"The hell I'm not! _You_ aren't going without back-up."

"But this -- "

"Same song and dance as before, yeah?"

"It could wind up being a trap set by _Voldemort_!"

"What do you think we were in the D.A. for?" Peter asked.

"Not you too."

"All of us," Scott said.

"Except Susan," Ed added.

"What do you mean not me? You can't protect me, Ed Carpenter!"

"You can't Apparate."

"You can -- "

He shook his head, face reddening. "I can't Apparate well enough to take you side-along."

"Susan," Cedric said, "we need somebody to stay behind -- let one of the adults know what's going on."

"Why does it have to be me? Just because I'm a girl -- !"

"No, you being a girl has nothing to do with it. It's because you can't Apparate yet. Ed's right; this distance, even broken up, is going to be hard enough for any of us to manage. Taking you would be dangerous. We need you to go back into the castle, wait about half an hour, then find my mother and tell her _everything_, all right? I saw her go in there earlier; I'm sure she's looking for me. If you can't find her, find Professor Snape or Remus Lupin -- one of those three -- and tell them the whole story. They'll know what to do. Tell my mother I'm not playing at the hero. I'm going to stop Harry from playing at the hero."

Her face still appeared rebellious, and she was glaring at Ed, but she spun on her heel and stalked away. "Don't you ever try to 'protect' me again, Edward."

"Uh-oh," Scott said with a grin as the three headed by back paths to the front gate, where they could Apparate. "Methinks you'd better come back with flowers, mate."

"Sod off," Ed replied.

Outside the gate again finally, they all looked at Scott. "You remember where my parents' house is?" Scott asked. "Then off we go. One, two, three . . . "

Apparating from Hogwarts to Manchester was half the distance to London, and somewhat greater than apparating from London to Ottery-St.-Catchpole. Cedric and Scott managed it without too much trouble although after his exhausting flight, Cedric felt stretched in every muscle, and Peter splinched some hair, but was otherwise in one piece.

Ed splinched his _arm_, and was howling more from shock than pain.

But that meant he had to go back to fetch the forearm left behind -- or rather he had to be taken back by Scott -- who returned forty-five minutes later without him. "I told him he wasn't coming further," Scott explained when he reappeared in the machine shed near the ramshackle house he'd grown up in. "He didn't argue."

"What took you so long?" Peter asked. Cedric and Peter had been sitting on bits of equipment, growing increasingly nervous as they waited.

"I had to get him back into the castle to Madam Pomfrey -- without being seen." Scott looked at Cedric. "Your mum's on a rampage, mate -- looked near frantic."

Guilt-stricken, Cedric sighed. "I have to do this. Hermione's down there. Susan will explain it to her."

"I thought you said you weren't playing the hero?" Peter admonished.

"I'm not. But Hermione's down there."

"You sound pretty much the same as Potter, to me."

Getting to his feet on the crutches, Cedric glared. "The difference is that Harry hasn't got a damn clue whether Sirius actually _is_ at the Ministry. I _know_ Hermione is."

Lips thin, Peter turned away. "Ever since you started dating her -- "

"What?" Cedric interrupted, getting right in front of his friend and feeling belligerent.

Scott stepped between them. "Stop it, both of you." He glanced at Peter. "I've got to side with Ced on this one. Harry's chasing Blibbering Humdingers; we're chasing Harry -- there's a difference. We've got to stop him before he does something really stupid. Like get himself killed."

"We could let the adults to do it," Peter pointed out -- very reasonably, which annoyed Cedric.

Scott spoke before Cedric could. "And miss out on all the fun?" Scott was grinning widely, and clapped Cedric's shoulder. "Ready?"

Cedric took a breath. "I think so. What about you? You've Apparated three times already." Despite the enthusiasm in Scott's voice, his eyes were looking tired.

"I don't think we have time to debate it, me."

"What if we Floo there? Just straight into the Ministry?" Cedric's mother wasn't at Scott's house to stop them. But it only occurred to Cedric after he'd suggested it that Scott's family might not have the Floo powder to waste. It wasn't cheap.

And indeed, Scott hesitated but then nodded. "Yeah, that's probably the wiser choice." But he peered at Cedric. "Can you Floo now?"

Cedric nodded. "If I'm sitting down."

"Okay." Scott glanced out the shed door towards the house. "Come on then -- put a Silencing spell on your feet and we'll sneak in. Better if we don't have to explain it to me mum, yeah?"

The downstairs was dark, although candlelight spilled from upstairs windows and down the staircase. Cedric had to move carefully through the kitchen and dining area, to avoid hitting furniture. He could hear the soft murmur of voices and was glad Scott's parents had apparently already eaten. Here at high summer the sun set late. "We're going to have to do this fast," Scott whispered. "They'll hear the Floo."

"No they won't," Cedric whispered back and pointed his wand up, casting a Silencing spell. Nodding, he turned back to Scott. "That should do it. But let me go first, since it takes me the longest to get situated."

"No way," Peter interrupted. "No telling what's waiting for us in the Ministry atrium. I'm going first, or Scott -- wand out."

Cedric glared but Scott was nodding and pulled a small pot down off the mantel, removing the lid and looking in, "Hope there's enough ..." Then he held it out to Peter, who took a handful, stepped into the fireplace and was gone in a flash of green.

Both Cedric and Scott glanced towards the staircase. Silencing spell or not, the flash of light might garner attention. "Go, hurry," Cedric said to Scott.

"But you -- "

"I'll be fine. Hurry."

Scott nodded, took powder and disappeared in green. Cedric was still watching the stairs. So far, so good. Reaching in his pocket, he fetched two galleons and slipped them into the jar of Floo powder before taking a handful and setting the jar back. It was a bit of a trick, getting himself inside the fireplace without falling, but he finally managed and, seated, pulled his wand before saying softly, "Ministry of Magic atrium," as he released the powder and felt the familiar sensation of falling in a spin.

When he rotated to a stop, he tipped over slightly, and his head was spinning a bit but his wand was out. Somebody gripped his wrist and hauled him up.

Scott. "Nobody's here," he said.

"Not Harry -- ?"

"Not anybody," Scott replied. "No security -- nobody."

"That's not good."

"No kidding."

Peter came back to join them near the fireplaces; the sound of his footsteps echoed in the large chamber and he was shaking his head. "Either they beat us here and are gone somewhere else, or they haven't arrived yet. Susan said Harry thought Sirius was being held in the Department of Mysteries."

Cedric nodded although it wasn't a question. He stared at the fountain for a minute while he organized his thoughts. Peter and Scott waited. "I don't want us to split up. If something happened to one of us, we'd have no way to alert the others. Besides, given the fact I'm almost certain this is a trap of some kind, it's best if we stick together if we have to fight anybody. I wish I knew if Harry was already here."

"I think we should wait for the adults," Peter said. "Not wander off _anywhere_. Susan must have told your mum by now, mate." He was surreptitiously eying Cedric's crutches and while he didn't say anything, Cedric knew exactly what he was thinking. On crutches, Cedric was more of a liability than a help. "I'm sure they have ways to get hold of Dumbledore. You said he was there at the Three Broomsticks when you arrived with Bill Weasley."

"Yeah." Cedric found his throat still closed any time he even thought about mentioning the Order. "Somebody may show up, but I don't think we can count on it." He shifted his weight onto one crutch and scratched at the back of his head. "I wish I knew how fast thestrals can fly. Faster than eagles, that's for sure."

"Is that what you took off after?" Peter asked, and Cedric only then remembered he was probably the only one who'd been able to see them. "We just saw people sort of . . . flying through the air."

"Yeah, they were riding thestrals." Pulling out his pocket watch he glanced at it. Although he wasn't sure of exactly when Harry had left Hogwarts, it had been sunset, and that was almost two hours ago. He wasn't sure even supernatural thestrals could cover the distance from the middle of Scotland to London in two hours. "Let's wait a bit -- see if they arrive."

So they waited, and waited. Nothing happened. The atrium remained empty, the water in the fountain falling in hypnotic rhythm. They talked a bit, but mostly didn't. Cedric wished he had some idea how long was too long, and he was just about to give up and suggest they go down to the Ninth Floor and the Department of Mysteries when the lift at the end of the atrium rumbled to life. All three of them were on their feet, wands out, when the lift stopped and the door opened.

Harry stumbled out, wand extended. Behind him were Ron, Hermione, Neville, Ginny and Luna.

"Cedric!" Hermione exploded out from behind Harry to engulf him in a hug. For just a moment, Cedric wasn't aware of anything but the feel of her back in his arms. "What are you doing here?" she demanded when he let her go. "It's the _21__st__ of June_, you big idiot!"

Cedric hadn't even thought of that, or his mother's painting, and didn't have time to worry about it now. "Chasing down you six," he replied. "The larger question is what you think _you're_ doing here?"

Harry's face had quickly transformed from surprise to anger. "Voldemort has Sirius. I know he does. Kreacher as good as admitted it."

Cedric resisted snorting; antagonizing Harry wouldn't convince him of anything. "What makes you think Kreacher wasn't lying?"

"I saw Sirius! In my dreams! The same as I saw Mr. Weasley. VOLDEMORT HAS HIM! Now either help us or get out of the way!"

The rest of them winced, even Scott. Cedric just met his eyes. "I'm not getting out of the way, Harry. It doesn't make any sense that Voldemort would have Sirius; it makes a lot more sense that he might try to trap you by convincing you he _did_ have him. I have a better plan. Let me Apparate you to Sirius'. It'll take only a few minutes at most. I'll show you that he's all right. And if he's not," Cedric added, "we'll help you rescue him."

Both Peter and Scott shot him startled glances, but Cedric was virtually certain that bet was a safe one. Harry was clearly torn, however -- frustrated but perhaps a little less sure of himself. "It wouldn't hurt, Harry," Hermione urged. "Like Cedric says, it'll only take a minute."

"One more minute of Sirius being tortured -- like the time we're wasting standing here talking!"

Cedric pursed his lips. "Stop being a prick," he said bluntly. "I'm trying to help you. Let's go and see if Sirius is safe at home. If he's not, you've got three more wands on your side."

It seemed to take Harry by surprise that Cedric was neither placating him nor outright trying to stop him. He appeared to think about it for a few seconds, then nodded once, sharply. "All right, fine. But make it quick."

Cedric nodded and motioned Harry to his side.

Before Harry could move, however, a series of popping noises announced the arrival of caped and hooded figures all around them. A trap, as Cedric had feared. Scott, Ron, Ginny and Hermione all pulled wands, but the Death Eaters had their own already aimed. "Don't move," one said.

"You won't be going anywhere, I'm afraid," drawled a voice from behind one of the hoods. A voice Cedric knew and hated violently.

Lucius Malfoy.

Inside Cedric, everything went cold.

"Take the Weasley girl," Malfoy said to a shorter figure beside him.

The figure stepped forward to grab Ginny by the hair then shoved her wand tip to the base of Ginny's chin. "Move and I'll melt your brain, little one," said a woman's voice.

"Since you seem to doubt we have one hostage, Potter, you can be certain now that we have another," Malfoy said. "Come to the Hall of Prophecy in the Department of Mysteries if you want her back."

And the figures disappeared again -- taking Ginny with them.

* * *

**  
****Notes: **As people can probably guess from the ending, things begin to diverge from here on out. No, Susan was not originally part of the group helping, but I've included her both for plot reasons and to give Hufflepuff some representation along with Ravenclaw's Luna.


	36. The Department of Mysteries

"This is your fault!" Harry shouted, turning on Cedric -- who appeared torn between fury and utter shock.

Harry's rage spurred Hermione to anger of her own. "How is it any more his than yours? _You're_ the one who insisted on coming here!"

"If he hadn't -- "

"Hadn't what? Tried to stop you from running straight into a trap?"

"This isn't getting us anywhere." That was Scott. "Play your blame game later. Right now, we have a real hostage, not a hypothetical one."

And that brought them all back to the immediate crisis. Harry leapt around the older boys, headed for the golden gate and lifts beyond. "Right, let's go."

"Let's not," Scott replied, getting a fist in the back of Harry's robes and hauling him to a stop. "We need a plan first, don't you think?"

"They've got Ginny!"

"And barging off half-cocked will do her any good?"

"Well, standing around debating it sure won't!" Ron said, coming to stand beside Harry. "You plan. We're going after her."

Harry shot him a grateful look and yanked free of Scott's grip as they headed for the lift together, only to have Neville, of all people, scurry after. "I'm coming too."

"Idiots!" Scott said, and Hermione was torn. Scott was right, they did need a plan, but she knew Harry and Ron, and it was better to plan on the fly, because they didn't wait around. The Death Eaters _did_ have a real hostage now.

"I have to go with them," she told Cedric, Peter and Scott.

"No -- " Cedric protested, reaching for her.

"I have to, I'm sorry. And you have stay here. Cedric, you _have_ to stay here." She held his eyes, dark now as they got when he was angry. "Remember, it's the _21__st__ of June_." Turning, she hurried after Harry, Ron and Neville.

"Hermione!"

She didn't reply but heard feet hurrying after her as Scott's voice -- commanding -- said, "No, she's right -- you stay. You've gone as far as you can go. You're on crutches. You'll endanger the rest of us trying to protect you."

It was blunt and brutal and honest -- and perhaps the only thing that would have made Cedric stay behind. Hermione said, "Thank you," under her breath as Scott, along with Peter and Luna caught up to her, Harry, Ron and Neville at the lifts.

"Don't thank me," Scott replied, voice tight. "Just come up with a plan because we just left our strategist in the atrium."

"You didn't do too badly with that no confidence motion," Peter pointed out.

"Justin's idea mostly. Where is this Department of Mysteries anyway? And what's the Hall of Prophecy?"

"Ninth Floor for the former," Harry replied, voice tight. "No idea on the latter. But I think I'll know it when I see it."

A lift had arrived and they climbed in. Hermione was busy trying to come up with the desired plan. "Listen," she said. "They caught us by surprise because they can Apparate. Well, we have two people who can, too. I don't think we should all go in there at once. Then we can catch _them_ by surprise if some of us Apparate in after."

"Good idea," Scott said, "except for the part where we haven't got a bleedin' clue where we're going. If we Apparate somewhere we've not seen, we could wind up in a wall, yeah?"

"Oh," Hermione felt stupid, but Scott squeezed her shoulder.

"It's all right," he said. "It _is_ a good idea, just ..." His eyes narrowed. "The problem is that they have the advantage of knowledge. They _know_ where they're going -- and what they want. Harry, there's obviously a reason they lured you here, right?" Harry nodded. "Any idea what that is?"

Harry shook his head. "Not exactly. There's something here that Voldemort wants." Scott and several of the rest winced at Harry's casual use of the name. "That's what I've seen in my dream. That's what he's torturing Sirius to get."

"Not Sirius," Hermione corrected softly.

Harry glanced at her, half-glaring. "All right, all right. So apparently they didn't have Sirius! Happy?"

"No, Harry. I'm not trying to . . . make fun of you, but it's important." Her eyes narrowed. "Tell us again _everything_ you can remember from your dream about where we're going. Describe it in as much detail as you can; the smallest thing could be important. Scott's right. They have the advantage of knowing where they are. But we have _you_ and your dreams. They _expect_ us to go charging in there like the Light Brigade. So we don't do that, right?"

The lift had stopped at the Ninth Floor and the seven of them glanced out, but found no one. Cautiously, they exited, then stood there listening, as Harry described the rooms and corridors he'd passed down in his dreams. Hermione nodded over and over. "All right," she said, "the final room -- this hall -- it sounds quite large, but with only one entrance. They might be waiting for us as soon as we get in there, but I doubt it. I expect they'll be waiting down that aisle where you think you saw Sirius, where whatever 'it' is they want."

She glanced at Scott and Peter. "So once we're in the room, we split up. Harry, Ron and . . . Neville. You three go to the aisle. Peter, Scott, Luna and me, we'll go around the side. You two can Apparate us side-along?" Scott nodded and after a moment's hesitation, Peter did too. "All right then -- "

"But they'll want to know where the rest of you are," Harry pointed out.

"Tell them you made us -- the girls -- stay upstairs. And that the older boys wouldn't come because they were there to stop you anyway."

Harry appeared a bit dubious, then nodded once, sharply. "It'll have to do. What are you planning?"

"To surprise them like they surprised us. There were . . . I think I counted ten of them."

"Twelve," Luna corrected almost absently.

Startled, Hermione glanced around. "All right, twelve then. Seven of us, twelve of them."

"Terrific odds," Ron muttered.

"_We_ have the element of surprise this time," Hermione admonished. "And if we can free Ginny, then it's eight to twelve."

"Twelve Death Eaters and eight schoolkids," Peter said, sounding as pessimistic as Ron.

"Well, you can go back up and guard Cedric," Hermione told him. Sometimes she wasn't sure what to make of Peter.

He glared. "I'm not about to back down. I'm just pointing out that we're at a _bit_ of a disadvantage."

"Can we go now?" Harry asked, fidgeting. "We've got a plan, or as good of one as we're likely to get. And they've got Ginny."

Hermione sighed. "Yes, I suppose we should go." She wasn't inclined to leave Ginny with Lucius Malfoy any more than Harry or Ron were. She looked at Harry. "Lead on."

With a nod, he set out for the door to the Department of Mysteries.

* * *

Upstairs, Cedric cast about for something to do that might be remotely useful. In that moment, he absolutely hated Scott Summers for pointing out the obvious.

He was a damn _cripple_.

They were all down there, risking their necks and he was sitting up here, unable to help, knowing nothing of what was transpiring_. Hermione_ was down there. "Useless. Completely _useless_."

He settled down on the edge of the fountain, his wand out and gripped tightly. He had to trust that Susan -- and Ed -- would tell his mother, and that she'd know what to do next.

And indeed, he'd been sitting there perhaps twenty minutes when the fireplaces suddenly roared to life, green flame licking the forms that leaped out, wands extended. Kinsley Shacklebolt and Nymphadora Tonks, Remus Lupin and Sirius Black, Alastor Moody and --

"Mum!" he shouted, unable to stop himself at the sight of the sixth figure to step out of green flame. He was very lucky he wasn't hexed six ways at once.

"Hold!" Lucretia Diggory shouted.

And then all six were around him, asking questions at once.

"Yes, it was a trap. We guessed that. We came to stop Harry -- but the Death Eaters must have been watching somehow. They Apparated up here and took us by surprise, then abducted Ginny Weasley -- "

"Ginny!" Tonks said. "What's _she_ doing here?"

"Harry wasn't alone," Cedric explained, and he detailed exactly who'd come, and what the Death Eaters had said. "I had to stay behind," he added bitterly, unable to meet any eyes.

"It's a good thing you did," Moody told him, voice gruff even as Sirius gripped his shoulder. If any of them could understand Cedric's sense of helplessness, it was probably Sirius.

Remus was nodding too. "We know where to go, thanks to you, Cedric. We had an idea anyway, but this helps tremendously."

"We've got to stop those kids," Shacklebolt was saying. "Moody and Lucretia together, Remus, you and I, and Sirius with Tonks. Let's go."

"And me?" Cedric asked, although he knew it futile.

"Dumbledore is on the way," Moody told him. "Let him know where we've gone."

Five of them turned away but his mother held his eyes a moment. "Do I need to tell you this was foolish?"

"I _had_ to stop him, mum. I knew he'd listen to me. And he _did_ listen to me. He was going to let me take him to Grimmauld Place." The Death Eaters had just interrupted it.

Her lips thinned, but she nodded. "All right, so he was. Now stay here." And in a swirl of purple robes, she was gone. Once again, he was left alone.

At least the cavalry had arrived. That had to count for something. Then again, it was six to twelve, and the Order would be trying to protect the others. They might have the likes of Moody, and Shacklebolt -- and his mother -- with Dumbledore on the way, but given the amount of time and care given to luring Harry to the ministry, Cedric sincerely doubted that Voldemort had sent his weakest followers. As much as Cedric detested his cousin, he knew Lucius to be a powerful wizard -- powerful enough to experiment with and modify curses.

What could one more do, especially one like him? He was no slouch -- he knew that without false modesty, or the Goblet wouldn't have picked him -- but hexes and curses were not his forte. And he couldn't run, nor even cast and walk at the same time. He would be in the way.

An idea suddenly came to him and he pushed himself to his feet abruptly, heading for the lifts beyond the golden gate. Dumbledore would surely know where to go when he arrived. Remus had as good as admitted the Order had known. Cedric didn't _have_ to be there to tell him; Moody had just been trying to make him feel better.

He was going to go and get in the way.

* * *

Things went well at first -- not flawless, but well. It took them longer to find the great chamber than they'd expected. Getting into the Department of Mysteries wasn't a problem, but getting _through_ it was. The central room rotated so that the door 'straight across' as Harry had seen in his dream was not predictable. They found all manner of curious places**: **a chamber full of tables of all possible shapes and sizes, the purpose of which Hermione couldn't begin to fathom; another stuffed with Egyptian marbles and gold-and-lapis sarcophagi; a library full of tattered ancient, codexes and scrolls in bronze cases that Hermione would have given almost anything to spend some time exploring -- or even reading their titles. And last, an amphitheater with, at the bottom, a whispering veil hanging in an ancient, crumbling archway attached to nothing else. That archway had given her serious shivers. After leaving each room, Hermione drew a glowing X on the door so they could keep track of where they'd been.

Finally they found an oblong room full of clocks and time-turners and an hourglass that contained a hatching and unhatching bird. Department of mysteries indeed, objects that defied even the demands of time.

Harry hurried them through the room to the door at the other end. "This is it," he murmured. "This is the door in my dreams." And they all took out their wands without being told. "Ready?" he asked them as Scott and Peter stepped close to Hermione and Luna, prepared to Apparate, then Harry opened the door.

That's when things began to go wrong. There were Death Eaters waiting for them on the other side -- four of them -- but none had Ginny. They were taking no chances, it seemed, and their wands were out too. "How nice of you to join us, Potter," said the voice of Lucius Malfoy. "How delightfully predictable. You can put away the wands now."

But wands weren't necessary to Apparate, and Hermione felt herself grabbed from behind, then _squeezed_, and she and Scott weren't standing in the doorway anymore. Instead, they were somewhere amid the aisles and aisle of shelves holding the small, foggy glass orbs. "How dare you!" she squeaked.

"Shh," he hissed back in her ear.

Somewhere in the distance, Hermione heard Malfoy laugh. "It would seem that some of your little friends are less brave than you, Potter. Those were Hufflepuff boys, if I didn't misidentify the color of their ties. Courage never was their attribute."

Hermione could feel Scott stiffen behind her and she gripped his wrist. But at least from what Malfoy had said, Peter had followed Scott's lead and Apparated too, even if she wasn't sure where.

"Come along, we don't need them anyway. Just you."

"I want to see Ginny," Harry replied.

"Demands, demands . . . I don't believe you're in any position to demand anything. Come with me and you will be reunited, however."

And Hermione heard footsteps on the stone flooring. She and Scott hurried to the far end of their row, feet spelled to silence, then crouched down and watched. Her lower back was starting to ache, and she rubbed at it; too many hours on a thestral perhaps. A moment later, the robed Death Eaters appeared with Harry, Ron, Neville -- and it would seem Luna -- between them. She felt a hand on her shoulder and looked around. Scott was motioning down the outside aisle, then put a hand over his lips. She nodded and followed him as they shadowed the Death Eaters, who -- feeling confident -- were making no attempt at stealth. They stopped about halfway down the long hall, turning into an aisle that was opposite the side she and Scott occupied. There, the rest of the Death Eaters waited, Ginny immobile among them. Harry and Ron tore loose from Malfoy's grip to hurry down the aisle and embrace her. "How touching," Malfoy drawled. "Now, Potter, we'd like you to fetch what we came for. There -- right there on that shelf."

"It's got _my_ name on it. What is it anyway?"

"Never you mind. Take it down slowly and hand it to me."

Hermione assumed Malfoy was pointing to one of the foggy glass orbs stacked in boxes on shelves all around them. Thousands and thousands of them, maybe millions in a room this size, each labeled with -- now that she looked more closely -- a name or names. She wondered what they were, but to be honest, didn't really care beyond one vital characteristic**:**

They were _glass_.

Trusting to distance and the noise the others were making, she leaned in to whisper to Scott, "Can you Apparate us just beyond their circle? Then we'll start smashing glass balls. It'll make a distraction so they can run."

He gave a short, sharp nod and gripped her by the waist. "Ready?"

She nodded back, then felt the familiar squeeze and pop of apparation as they reappeared just behind the back row of Death Eaters.

Aiming her wand at the left rack of shelves, she shouted, "_Reducto!" _Orbs shattered and rained sharp glass down on the Death Eaters. Scott was less elegant. He not only used his wand, he used his arm, rocking the entire tottering rack so that orbs and their boxes both fell inward. "Run!" Hermione heard Harry bellow.

And run they did, half-sliding on the age-slick stone in their haste to escape, Death Eaters howling in frustrated rage and pain behind them. They burst from either end of the row and sped down the outer and center aisles like startled cats. "Damn bastard better never call me a coward again," Scott huffed from where he was running beside her. Hermione had no breath to answer, and there was a growing stitch in her side. She felt as if someone had slid a knife into her abdomen.

The door that led out of the hall was shut, and would take precious seconds to open . . .

But just as they reached it, they found the missing Peter waiting there to throw it wide. He must have Apparated away and then back somehow. "Hurry!" They raced through, all eight of them -- Ginny pulled along by Ron -- and Peter slammed the door in the faces of the Death Eaters following, then put a Sticking charm on it.

"Clever," Harry said. Hermione noticed that he was carrying something -- one of the glass orbs -- but now wasn't the time to ask about it.

"They'll assume it's Sealed, not Stuck," Peter replied.

Hermione doubted it would actually stop them for long, but perhaps long enough they could get back through the room full of clocks out into the spinning black hall beyond. Unfortunately, Luna was limping, Neville had a bruise on his temple where something had hit him, and Ron and Harry both had cuts all over their faces and necks from flying glass. Of those who'd been standing inside the row when the orbs had broken, only Ginny had escaped unscathed, at least physically. Her eyes were haunted enough.

They might have made it out if not for Luna's limp, but the room's rear door flew open even as they reached the front. "_Impedimenta!_" two voices shouted together while a third -- Malfoy's -- roared, "Halt!"

One of the jinxes hit Neville, slamming him into the wall, but the other bounced harmlessly off a Shield spell that Scott had thrown up -- apparently silently. "_Expelliarmus!_" Harry shouted as Hermione screamed, "_Stupefy!_" while Ron and Peter hauled out a stunned Neville between them and Ginny helped Luna. Scott sent another silent spell at the door behind Malfoy. It slammed shut again in the face of the Death Eaters trying to crowd in behind the first three.

"Go!" Scott shouted, practically shoving Hermione and Harry through the door in front of him. It shut behind them and they were back in the black hall with the many doors. As soon as the door closed, the round hall began to spin again and -- to Hermione's horror -- _none of her Xs remained_.

"I have no idea which door leads out!" she said, aghast.

"Well _pick_ one!" came Harry's response as he shoved past her to head for the closest.

Before they could all follow, however, the three Death Eaters who'd been in the clock room exploded out of the door. Hermione followed Harry, along with Ron -- and Peter. Ginny, Luna, Neville and Scott ran in the opposite direction.

Harry's group wound up back in the Egyptian room. It had no other doors and the four of them scattered amid the statues and sarcophagi. Hermione's skin felt hot with fear and -- annoyingly -- she _really_ had to pee. In all the adventure stories she'd ever read, nobody talked about bodily functions. Maybe that was because boys -- or men -- wrote them and boys had bladders the size of pumpkins. Hagrid's pumpkins. But the last time she'd been to the toilet had been at least four hours before.

They spent several minutes crouched in hiding. She tried crossing her legs, and could hear Ron beside her muttering beneath his breath 'something Bill said . . . what was it Bill said . . . ?'

"Ronald!" she hissed to silence him, but he exclaimed, "That's it!" at the same time the door opened and two Death Eaters entered, wands out.

"Potter, Potter, ickle Potter!" one called in a sing-song woman's voice, almost laughing. "Come out, come out wherever you are!"

It wasn't Harry who stood then, but Ron . . . and he was -- Oh, good Lord! What did he have on his head? No, what had his head _become_? It looked like some kind of bird with a crescent moon above, and he spoke in a tongue she didn't recognize at all, pointing with one hand that held his wand. Brilliant light exploded from it, blasting both the woman and the unknown Death Eater backwards against the door. The unknown male slumped to the ground, clawing at his throat and tearing off his hood. His mouth opened only to reveal a curled bird's tongue. The woman fled back out again, and Hermione looked back at Ron.

He'd returned to his normal self, his wand arm shaking as Hermione and Harry hurried to his side. "That was brilliant," Harry was saying even as Hermione asked, "What _was_ that?"

Ron looked from one to the other, then to Peter who stood a little beyond. "That was Thoth. His curse, Bill said, is to steal a man's wit and speech. He taught it to me a few years back. It didn't affect the woman, though."

"Bellatrix Lestrange," Harry snarled. "She doesn't have any wits left to steal -- she's mad."

Hermione put a hand over her mouth at the name of Sirius' cousin and the torturer of Neville's parents. "Harry, what have you got in your hand?" she asked finally.

He looked down at it. "Dunno -- but it's the thing Voldemort wanted. So we can't let him have it."

"Right," Ron said. "And this isn't the way out, so we need to move on."

Move on they did, peeking out the door. Nobody was in the hall beyond, so they emerged and Hermione scribed one of her flaming Xs on the door. She knew it was a clue for the Death Eaters, but they had to get out of here, and maybe it would help them find the others.

The next room they tried wasn't one they'd seen, and it brought them no closer. In fact, they wound up startling two Death Eaters searching it.

"_Petrificus Totalus!_" Harry shouted, taking down one Death Eater even as Peter sent a Stunning spell against the other . . . and missed. Instead, he hit a tank of water lit by a soft phosphorescent blue glow and full of something that looked like jellyfish. The tank exploded, water and glass and jellyfish flying everywhere. Being closer, most of the gray-pale globs wound up on the Death Eaters, tendrils wrapping around them while the men screamed.

And so did someone to their right. Hermione jerked her head about, horrified to see a grey blob stuck to Ron's upper chest, tentacles enfolding his shoulders, arms and torso. And now Hermione could see that was _not_ a jellyfish.

It was a brain.

"Ron!" she shrieked, dashing towards him even as Peter reached him from the other side.

"_Libero!_" Peter shouted, wand out. But nothing happened. The brain was still attached to Ron's chest, its tentacles (nervous system?) wrapping ever more tightly. "_LIBERO!_" Peter tried again.

"Peter," Hermione begged. "Apparate him -- please." Why hadn't she thought of that before? He could have taken Harry and maybe the Death Eaters would have stopped chasing them. But she'd been too frightened to spot the obvious solution, and now it was Ron who needed help the most.

Harry was gripping Peter's forearm too. "Take him to St. Mungo's."

Peter looked between them, swallowed, then nodded. "Good luck," he said, lifting Ron in his arms. Then with a crack, he was gone.

Hermione and Harry shared a glance and Harry gripped the orb a bit tighter before they turned for the door together. "One, two . . . three!"

Harry opened the door and they emerged -- wands out -- into chaos. The first thing Hermione saw was a great golden eagle dive-bombing the Death Eater attacking Neville. The man was howling in rage and firing off random Stunning spells, one of which was likely to strike the eagle by accident as much as design.

"Cedric!" she shrieked. "You _idiot_!" How dare he put himself in the middle of a fight on June 21st? And whether it was fear for him or the fact she simply couldn't hold it any longer, she felt something warm slide down her leg. She'd just wet her knickers. Oh, how horribly, _horribly_ embarrassing.

She didn't, however, have time to do more than pull her wand and aim it at the Death Eater Cedric was attacking before she felt something slam into her chest with the force of a heavy object. "Oh," was all she managed before darkness took her.

* * *

When Cedric had first opened the door to the Department of Ministries, he'd found nobody there at all, not Death Eaters, not Harry's group, and not Order members, which was probably fortunate as he couldn't move on crutches and cast spells at the same time. He wondered, yet again, what he thought he was doing here, but he just hadn't been able to stay above.

Almost immediately after he shut the door, the entire room began to rotate, giving him vertigo. When it stopped, his directional orientation was gone. He couldn't even be sure what door he'd just entered, but he did note that two of them had glowing Xs on them. Perhaps there were people in those rooms? But before he could check, a different door burst open, revealing Scott, a limping Luna Lovegood, and Neville Longbottom sporting a terrible bruise on the side of his face.

Racing out behind them came a quartet of Death Eaters; they overtook Luna almost immediately, grabbing her by the arm and flinging her off her feet against the side of the chamber. Cedric had already shifted his wand, taking aim to Stun one of them with a spell powerful enough to knock him backwards even as the room began to rotate again. One of the other Death Eaters turned on him, shouting, "_Cruci--_"

"_Silencio!_" bellowed Scott as Cedric Transformed into eagle form, darting upwards.

The room wasn't large enough for him to stretch his wings and truly fly, but he could act as a distraction; it was what he'd come for. The spinning slowed to a halt and more doors burst open to spit out hooded Death Eaters and, to Cedric's relief, Remus Lupin and Kingsley Shacklebolt chasing them, hexes flying. Another door opened and Harry and Hermione exited.

"Cedric, you idiot!" Hermione shouted upon seeing him, and he did a tight spin on his right wing just in time to witness one of the Death Eaters raise his wand and cast against her.

Cedric was too far away. He knew it even as he pulled in both wings to dive at the Death Eater hoping to throw off his aim. He hit the man's arm but too late; a blast of violet fire sliced across Hermione's chest. She stiffened, let out a soft noise of surprise and slid bonelessly to the floor.

Seeing her collapse, Cedric lost all rationality. With beak and talons he tore at the Death Eater, but his legs in this form were just as weak and -- talons or not -- couldn't do much damage beyond scratches. His beak was more effective, but the Death Eater swatted him aside and he tumbled head over wing, unable to flap or balance, and landed hard against the wall not far from Harry and Hermione. The shock sent him back into his normal form.

"Open the door!" Harry shouted, both his arms under Hermione's armpits, dragging her towards a door just to Cedric's right.

"_Alohamora!_" Cedric shouted and the door swung in. "Is she -- ?"

"She's unconscious." Harry dragged Hermione through, and Cedric -- relieved but unwilling to be separated from her -- pushed himself up on his crutches . . . only to be blasted straight through the door by a Stunning spell. For a moment, he could barely breathe, much less think, crumpled in a heap next to Harry and Hermione just inside the closing door.

"_Collopor--!_" Harry began, but six Death Eaters burst through before it could close, wands aimed at Harry. Cedric wanted to raise his own, but couldn't make his arms work. "Now," said the leading Death Eater -- Malfoy's voice -- "That orb if you please, Potter, and we might permit the three of you to leave this place alive." Behind Malfoy, the door clicked shut. They were stuck alone in the room**: **just Harry, a stunned Cedric, and an unconscious Hermione.

Face determined and strangely calm, Harry clutched the orb tighter against his chest and moved slowly backwards away from Hermione and Cedric, down a series of risers towards a strange archway at the bottom. "Somehow I doubt you'll let anybody leave alive," he was saying. "But I don't think you want me to break this, either, so you'd better stay away from me!"

Malfoy turned his wand from Harry to point it directly at Cedric. "I believe you saved this one once before, did you not? How terrible to waste such a noble act by stubbornness now. I _will_ kill him," Malfoy warned.

"Don't give in!" Cedric tried to shout -- but it came out as a garbled grunt, his tongue unnaturally swollen in his mouth. He settled for trying to shake his head where Harry could see. He'd made a choice to come down here; he'd known the risk, known it was foolish in the extreme. He wasn't going to let Malfoy turn him into a bargaining chip for whatever it was Harry held -- clearly something Voldemort wanted.

Pulling off his mask, Malfoy glanced from Cedric to Harry while the five behind him kept wands trained on Harry. Several of them followed Malfoy's lead and removed their masks as well. Cedric didn't recognize all of them, or even most. But he did recognize one**: **Bellatrix Lestrange, her face wild-eyed and sunken. "Ickle Potter doesn't seem to believe we're serious," she hissed, grinning madly, her wand almost dancing in her hand as if she itched to curse Harry.

"No, I don't believe that he does," Malfoy commented in an offhanded way as he stepped towards Cedric who, still largely paralyzed, could do nothing. "I suppose I'll have to prove it." Cedric watched the wand rise, fully expecting the end and wishing he could at least know if Hermione would turn out all right --

He'd be a midsummer sacrifice after all.

"NO!" Harry bellowed even as Malfoy hissed, "_Crucio!_"

Absolute, breath-stealing agony shot all through Cedric's body, as bad as anything he experienced with Nervoccido. His back arched involuntarily and his jaw clenched, teeth grinding to keep from screaming. Yet the Torture Curse overrode the Stunning Spell, and pain -- even excruciating pain -- was no stranger to Cedric. So he did what virtually nobody experiencing it could do. He raised his own wand to whisper, "_Expelliarmus!_"

It wasn't strong, but strong enough. Malfoy's wand popped out of his hand, startling him, and Cedric's pain stopped instantly. The other five all still had wands trained on _Harry_, not Cedric, whose wand remained raised. He knew there was no way he could Disarm all of them and no shielding spell would protect himself, Hermione _and_ Harry behind them.

"_Expecto Patronum!_"

He didn't think it would work; it never had before. But need drove him, and from the end of his wand something silvery exploded, charging towards the Death Eaters.

A silver-white buffalo. The sheer size of it bowled them over, and before they could recover their feet, two of the doors had been thrown open again -- this time revealing Order members, as well as Neville Longbottom and Scott Summers, hexes flying. His mother stood forefront among them, and to Cedric's dizzy sight, she appeared almost blazing with a mad wrath to match Bellatrix's.

"_**Lucius Augustus!**_"

He'd spun and seeing her, sneered. "Lucretia. Come to claim your errant mutt pup, I see."

She actually laughed. "Oh, no . . . no." She moved forward, wand trained on Lucius . . . who didn't have his. "No, I've come to exact revenge -- for my father, and for my son."

Malfoy lunged suddenly towards Cedric, probably seeking another hostage. But Cedric still had his wand, and a sudden rush of fury to match his mother's. "_STUPEFY!_"

Malfoy fell face-down at Cedric's crippled feet. "See how it feels to be stunned, you bastard," Cedric said, but then lost interest in Malfoy. Free finally, he scooted sideways to where Harry had been forced to leave Hermione, lifting her in his arms across his lap. She was breathing and only unconscious, as Harry had said, but he had no idea what curse she'd taken. He'd never seen anything like that purple flame. He stroked her hair. "Wake up, poppet. Please wake up." But her eyes remained closed, her skin pale and clammy to his touch.

The battle raged on around them. There were more than just the five Death Eaters who'd been with Malfoy; Cedric now counted eight. More must have arrived after the Order members. Scott and Kingsley Shacklebolt had squared off against a pair, Tonks fought Bellatrix, Sirius and Remus both stood against three he didn't know, Moody fought the Death Eater who'd cursed Hermione, while Neville had hurried down to guard Harry against the advance of the last. Cedric might have laughed at that, but Neville's expression defied ridicule.

"Mum," Cedric said, "Sirius and Remus . . . or Harry . . . "

"Can take care of themselves for the moment." With a lazy gesture, she undid the Stunning Spell Cedric had cast on Malfoy.

"Why'd -- "

"I want him able to talk." And she squatted down beside him, out of range of a quick grab, her wand trained on him. "Dear, dear cousin. It's been too long."

Malfoy levered himself up on his elbows. "Just kill me and get it over with."

Her smile was frightening. "Oh, no. No, I fully intend for you to suffer like you made my son suffer, Lucius. Your end won't be so easy as that."

She wasn't going to cast a Forbidden Curse, was she? "Mum, _no_ -- "

"Be silent!" she snapped, pale eyes flicking to him momentarily. "I told _you_ to stay upstairs -- "

That distraction was all Lucius needed. Shoving her over backwards, he leapt to his feet and jumped her prone form in one smooth move. "_Accio wand!" _Then he was racing down the risers towards Harry and Neville.

"Mum!" Cedric said, alarmed, but she'd rolled back to feet.

"Idiot!" she snarled and Cedric flinched, thinking she meant him, but she wasn't looking at him, and he suspected she might mean herself. Wand in hand, she darted away, down the risers after her cousin, leaving Cedric with Hermione.

He knew it would be incredibly foolish to draw attention to himself but the duels in the room were not all going in the Order's favor. Shacklebolt was holding his own with assistance from Scott, and Sirius had downed one Death Eater of the three. But Bellatrix Lestrange had felled Tonks, who was much younger, and Mad Eye Moody might have been great once, but he was old now, and wounded, and his reactions weren't what they'd once been. He'd gone down as well. Death Eaters were converging on Harry again, down near the odd black veil fluttering in its archway. And while his mother had run after Lucius, Cedric feared that she was more focused on catching her cousin than on saving Harry Potter and whatever it was he held.

Glancing down at Hermione's slack face in his lap, he whispered, "I have to go, love," and laid her down gently. "I'll be back." Rising on the crutches, he Transformed once again. His greatest weakness was also, it seemed, his greatest possible service**: **_to get in the way_.

Seeing Harry grabbed by the Death Eater who'd felled both Hermione and then Moody, Cedric headed straight for him, using the strength of his dive to slash black talons across the man's face and rip off the mask he still wore. Anton Dolohov -- Cedric recognized him from a photo in _The Daily Prophet_. He'd been the one to kill Molly Weasley's brothers.

Blinded by blood and startled by his unmasking, Dolohov shouted in a rage and fired off one of those vicious purple flames, but it struck only one of the risers, which exploded, coating those fighting nearby in limestone dust. Before he could do more or Cedric could circle around for another attack, Sirius slammed into Dolohov from behind, forcing him to release Harry and engaging him in a furious exchange of hexes. Raising his wand, Harry Body-Bound him and he fell over sideways, rigid and helpless. Cedric would have liked to settle on his chest and peck out his eyes for hurting Hermione, but there was no time for that right now.

Somehow Lucius Malfoy had eluded Cedric's mother again and leapt for Harry, hand out to grab the glass orb. Sirius couldn't help; Bellatrix had descended on him. Remus was still battling his Death Eater, Kingsley had finished off another but was down, and Scott was standing over Tonks, protecting her from yet another. Cedric came around, talons extended, wing slapping Malfoy in the face while Harry, in desperation, tossed the glass orb towards Neville. Amazingly, Neville caught it as Harry Hindered Malfoy. But _Impedimenta_ wasn't terribly strong and Malfoy was getting to his feet again --

-- but not before Cedric's mother was there to _Stupefy_ him.

Quite abruptly, the Death Eater fighting Scott -- who was bleeding from his nose -- sprinted past Scott to leap four risers and grab Neville by the throat. Neville couldn't toss the orb back to Harry -- Cedric's mother was in the way -- so instead, he threw it wildly in the air. "_Cedric -- catch!_"

Torchlight caught it as it spun, glittering gold -- almost like a Snitch. And Cedric didn't think; he just dove for it, his talons closing around it even as the Death Eater released Neville to fire a Stunning spell at him. But in eagle form he was nimble, graceful, powerful in a way he could never be on his feet and he slipped sideways just slightly so the curse slid harmlessly past. Holding the glass orb was more difficult. Turning in midair near the vaulted ceiling, he came back around, headed for Harry to return it. Below him, the battle still raged, half the Death Eaters down and half the Order. Harry was helping Neville up the risers, Remus had engaged the man who'd been holding Neville, Sirius was still fighting Bellatrix, his mother had squared off against another and Kingsley was back on his feet, fighting a fourth.

That was when it happened, as he dipped to circle back around near Harry. His feet -- which had been struggling to hold the orb -- simply couldn't maintain their grip any longer. The orb dropped. He cried out in frustrated rage and Harry glanced around in time to see it fall.

A Seeker no less than Cedric, Harry dove, landing hard on his side, arm outstretched. His fingers closed around it. But it must have been too slick, and it slipped out of Harry's grip to bounce down the risers back towards the dais where it rolled until it hit the edge of the ancient stone archway. And shattered.

Cedric watched silvery smoke rise from it into a vaguely human shape, only a few inches high, which appeared to be talking. But up in the air as he was, he couldn't hear, even if he could see, and had no time to dwell on it as a door had opened below to reveal Albus Dumbledore. Cedric let out an eagle cry of relief, one matched by Harry and Neville both. Two of the remaining Death Eaters attempted to flee, but were quickly stunned by a white-faced, furious Dumbledore. The third had been dispatched by Cedric's mother, while the last, Bellatrix Lestrange, continued in berserk blindness against her cousin Sirius, who seemed equally oblivious to Dumbledore's arrival. He'd just ducked a shot of red light and was calling out, "Come on, you can do better than that!" Cedric dove for her, intending to get his talons in her long, wild hair, even as Harry leapt to grab her, and she aimed a second Stunner at Sirius -- which caught him full on.

And Sirius' expression was, indeed, stunned, his mouth open in shock. Then everything happened almost too quickly for Cedric to register. Harry and Cedric's mother both leapt for Sirius, but were too far away to reach him and he fell backwards straight through the fluttering black veil hanging in the archway.

And disappeared.

No Sirius came out the other side. "SIRIUS!" Harry shrieked, almost diving through the veil after. Cedric's mother caught him and held fast. "SIRIUS!" Harry shouted again, struggling in her grip. Neville stood behind, looking shocked and Remus was racing towards Harry or the archway -- or both -- his face a mask of horror. "Save him!" Harry begged Remus. "Get him back, he's only just fallen through."

Cedric didn't hear all of Remus' answer. Instead, he came down and Transformed beside his mother, who looked equally struck. Harry was still resisting whatever Remus was telling him; Cedric could hear him bellowing, "HE -- IS -- NOT -- DEAD!" and then Remus was practically carrying him away, up the risers while Kingsley took on Bellatrix and Dumbledore saw to the secure binding of the Death Eaters who were down before checking the welfare of Moody. Scott was apparently looking after Tonks.

Cedric watched his mother's face. Her sorrow had transformed into stony rage. Cedric hadn't really known Sirius very well, but his mother had visited her cousin several times in the last year. Both rejected by their families for their choices, they must have understood one another better than most. "Is he really dead?" Cedric whispered.

"Yes," she said. "Nobody comes back through the veil."

There were sudden shouts from above and they both spun to look. Kingsley was down and Bellatrix was sprinting up the risers. Dumbledore had whipped around even as Harry tore out of Remus' grasp, "SHE KILLED SIRIUS. SHE KILLED HIM -- I'LL KILL HER."

And he was gone out one of the doors on Bellatrix's heels.

"That little fool!" Cedric's mother hissed, even as she reached out to grab Cedric's forearm, as if she feared he might follow.

And he might have, except Dumbledore was following instead, and Cedric didn't think he could add much to that. Besides, he had Hermione to see to. "Let me go, mum. I'm not following. But Sirius was the closest thing Harry had to parents."

Her eyes flashed. "His own rashness will get him killed just as it killed Sirius." Spinning on her heel, she stalked over to where Lucius Malfoy lay on the floor, still incapacitated. "You will pay," she said.

"Mum," Cedric said, shifting weight and gripping his wand just in case he had to stop her from doing something rash herself.

"Be silent," she told him. "I'm hardly going to get myself sent to Azkaban. Oh, no." She smiled down at Lucius. "No, I'll see this sack of putrefaction sent there instead." The smile widened. "Greet the dementors for me, Lucius. I wish you a _long_ life under their care. A long, torturous life."

Satisfied that she wouldn't do anything more, Cedric turned away and looked back up to where Hermione lay on the top riser, not far from the door they'd come through. It was faster to fly than to climb, so Cedric Transformed a final time, feeling the exhaustion and weakness settling in as adrenaline flowed away. Swooping up the risers, he returned to his own form and settled down beside her, lifting her in his arms again. She still appeared unresponsive, and her skin remained pasty white. "Hermione?" he whispered, patting her cheek gently. "Hermione?"

"What happened to her?" asked a female voice above him and he looked up to find Scott and Tonks, each helping the other stay upright. Tonks appeared shaky and had tear tracks on her face. Scott was limping and blood still stained his upper lip and chin, half wiped away, although his nose had stopped bleeding and he had an arm around Tonks -- perhaps to comfort her as much as to steady himself.

"I don't know," Cedric said as Scott lowered himself beside him and Tonks knelt. "Anton Dolohov fired some sort of violet-flamed curse at her. Do you know what that might have been?" he asked Tonks.

Shaking her head and frowning, she reached out to check Hermione's pulse. Cedric lifted her a little more across his lap, thinking as he did so that she felt quite cool and clammy. And there was something very wet soaking his trouser leg and the hand beneath her. Pulling the hand free, he glanced down at it.

It was bright red. "What the -- !"

"Oh, my God!" Tonks breathed, pulling Hermione off Cedric's lap to lay her out flat, ripping her robes open and yanking up her top to expose her torso -- but there were no wounds to explain the blood. In fact, all the blood appeared to be on her jeans and pooling beneath her. Cedric's heart beat harder than at any point during the fight. He couldn't lose her.

"I think it's . . . um . . . I think it's coming out from between her legs," Scott said, sounding embarrassed.

Not even thinking about modesty, Tonks unbuttoned Hermione's jeans and began tugging them down. Cedric helped as best he could. Scott looked away, either queasy or discreet.

But he'd been right. Hermione's knickers and the crotch and thighs of her jeans were soaked with red. "What's happening?" Cedric asked, panicked. "What did Dolohov do to her?"

"I've no idea!" Tonks said, voice tense but firm. "We'll get her right to St. -- "

"I believe I know what it is," said a new voice above them.

Cedric looked up desperately at his mother. "What then?" He _couldn't_ lose his Granger.

His mother knelt, covering Hermione's exposed pelvic region with the edge of her school robe. She didn't answer his question. "Tonks, see to Scott. Cedric, come with me. We'll Apparate her to St. Mungo's immediately." She looked at him and touched his upper arm. "She'll be all right, Cedric. She's not dying; but she does need to be taken to a healer immediately."

With her wand, she levitated Hermione's unconscious, prone form and waited for Cedric to climb back to his feet -- Tonks helping surreptitiously. Cedric couldn't seem to get enough air in his lungs and he was shaking all over. Tonks gripped his hands. "Good thoughts," she told him. "One loss is enough for this night."

* * *

**Reviews are love ...**


	37. The Summer King

When they came out to tell Cedric what had happened to Hermione to cause all the bleeding, he didn't know quite what to say. "She miscarried" simply didn't compute.

"But she wasn't pregnant," he replied, bewildered. "She couldn't have miscarried. She wasn't pregnant."

The healer -- a woman -- settled down in a wooden-backed chair across from his wheelchair. Her face was very solemn, her back as stiff as the wood. "I'm afraid she was, Mr. Diggory. About seven weeks along, in fact."

Speechless and struggling to sort through the morass of what he felt, Cedric ran a hand into his hair, tugging at it as the woman droned on**:** "She'll be all right in a few days. The miscarriage was clean -- we didn't need to Scourgify her womb, and she didn't lose significant amounts of blood. That curse turned out to be of greater concern. It caused internal bleeding, but that's all repaired now too. She'll likely be unconscious for another day or so while her body mends, but I expect her to make a full recovery. That said, she shouldn't be allowed to do anything terribly strenuous for two weeks and" -- she eyed him over the top of her spectacles -- "no sexual intercourse during that time either. Other sexual activity is fine, but no sexual intercourse."

Cedric blushed. Yet her voice was straightforward and cautionary, not censorious; if she found anything scandalous in their behavior, he couldn't tell. Finally, he asked, "You're quite _sure_ it was a miscarriage? It couldn't have . . . well, you said there was internal bleeding . . . "

She shook her head. "It was a miscarriage." She was peering at him. "I don't wish to pry, but is there a particular reason you find that unlikely? You're her boyfriend; I'd assumed . . . well -- "

"The baby would have been mine," Cedric snapped.

"I meant no insult, Mr. Diggory, but you seemed surprised."

"It's just that we were careful. We were _very_ careful, both of us . . . " He trailed off. There _had_ been that one time in the broom cupboard. He'd forgotten his spell -- but Hermione hadn't.

Perhaps guessing somewhat the direction of his thoughts, she said, "It only takes once -- one badly cast spell. If you're excited . . . it can happen. The two of you would hardly be the first young couple to have an accident."

"Hermione is very precise," he said, but offered no excuse for himself. Seven weeks . . . that would have been about right. Beltane. It had happened on Beltane. He wanted to laugh.

The Summer King, indeed.

If he'd died tonight, he'd have left a child -- a son, no doubt. But he hadn't died. His baby had instead, and almost his baby's mother.

"Could I be alone for a bit?" he asked. "And can I go in to sit with her now?"

She nodded. "Yes. We have her resting comfortably in the Bonham Ward for Spell Damage. I'll show you the way."

"I know the way," he said, resisting a snort of laughter. "I spent almost six weeks in that very ward last summer." And he wheeled rapidly away, leaving her behind. He didn't thank her. At the moment, he wasn't feeling gracious.

He was alive but his baby -- a baby he'd neither expected nor wanted but was still his -- was dead. He didn't at all know how he felt about that.

Wheeling into the ward, he found Hermione's bed near the back; it would've been _too_ great an irony if she'd occupied the same one he had. The place still smelled of old camphor and sharp sweat beneath a false floral odor, and the sheets that covered her small form were such a bright bleach white they hurt the eyes. Her pale skin looked like vanilla cream beside them, the bushy brown hair a bottlebrush on the pillow. He wheeled in next to the bed as close as he could get, and slipped his hand into hers. The fingers were warm, not clammy like they'd been in the Department of Mysteries. He couldn't maneuver close enough to lift them to his mouth and it frustrated him.

He could find no sign of consciousness in her face, no flicker of awareness that he was there, and he wondered how he would tell her they'd made a baby together, then lost it. Perhaps that was a blessing, sparing them the decision of whether or not to keep it. He wondered if she'd known -- but by seven weeks, she must have had some suspicion, mustn't she?

He heard feet behind him and turned his head as a hand came down on his shoulder. His mother. She handed him a cup of steaming tea -- "Drink something" -- and pulled up a chair beside his.

"Did you talk to the healer?"

"No, one of the medi-witches told me you'd come in here. I'm not Hermione's mother, Cedric. They wouldn't tell me her condition."

"They told me." At his mother's sharp glance, he shrugged. "I suppose they thought I had a right to know." He hesitated, unsure whether he should tell her -- but it had been her painting that had caused this, and a flush of bitterness soured the back of his throat. "She was pregnant."

If his mother were surprised by this, he couldn't tell and he studied her face, but when she said nothing, he went on. "Seven weeks. Beltane -- it must have happened on Beltane." He fell silent again, but she still said nothing. "Hermione was right. That painting did something, something it wasn't supposed to do?" He made it a question rather than a statement.

She shook her head. "It wasn't intended to do that, no."

"She miscarried," he said, looking back at Hermione and dragging a thumb back and forth across her hand as he sipped his tea.

"I gathered that from the '_was_ pregnant' part."

"You knew that's what was happening in the Department of Mysteries, didn't you?" He couldn't keep the accusation out of his voice. She merely nodded. Of course she'd known; it had happened to her. "Why am I alive and our baby dead?"

"You're alive because I burned the painting. The baby is dead because Hermione was hit by a vicious curse."

He jerked his head around when she said -- so matter-of-factly -- that she'd burned the painting, and with it, her evidence against Umbridge. Without the painting, it was his word against Umbridge's regarding the incident with the charmed Snitch, or Esiban, or even her behavior in the Prefect's Bath. She was going to get away with it. Those at Hogwarts might know the truth, but the larger Wizarding World didn't necessarily. "When?" he asked.

"Tonight, after you left the Three Broomsticks, dashing off like a fool with those roommates of yours. When that girl -- Amelia Bones' niece -- came to tell me you'd gone to London, I knew Voldemort had succeeded in luring Harry Potter to the Hall of Prophecy, and if there was even the slightest chance you'd be in harm's way, I couldn't run the risk that the painting might do more than I'd meant." She sighed. "You just can't stay out of trouble, can you, Cedric?"

He pressed his lips together. "I had to stop Harry, mum. I knew he'd listen to me -- like I told you in the Ministry. And he would have listened."

"Yes, and Lucius Malfoy was watching all of you from the moment you arrived too. What you _should_ have done was come directly to me as soon as you suspected what Harry was up to -- or did you think the adults couldn't have stopped him just as effectively?"

"It wasn't that -- "

"Then what was it?"

"I didn't think about -- "

"That's right! You didn't _think_, Cedric. You didn't think! And you didn't stay put in the atrium like you were told, either. As a result, you nearly got yourself killed." Her voice was as sharp as splintered glass, cutting him.

"I couldn't just sit there while the rest of you -- "

"_Yes_, you could have," she interrupted for a third time. "But instead you had to throw yourself into the middle of a battle when you can't even hold your wand and walk at the same time, never mind run, forcing everybody else to keep an eye out to protect you."

"So, what, I'm just a useless cripple?"

"Merlin spare me! Yes, Cedric, you _are_ crippled! There are things you can do and things you cannot, and if you expect me to sugarcoat the truth to spare your feelings, you're sadly mistaken. Maturity means recognizing our limitations, not endangering others because we don't want to face them. You do not belong in the middle of a wizards' battle, not even in eagle form."

And Cedric was so angry, he wanted to spit. "If I _hadn't_ been there, Lucius Malfoy might have got that prophecy from Harry. I helped tonight, mother. I helped more than I hindered anybody."

"Perhaps you did, but the plain fact is that you threw yourself in the path of danger for the sake of your male vanity. You couldn't be left behind, just like you couldn't swallow your pride earlier and tell Cornelius Fudge the poems in that journal weren't yours. You had to be noble and accept expulsion instead of be sensible and lie a little."

Cedric knew she had a point, but right now wasn't the time to press it. Glaring at her, he said, "I don't want to talk about this just at the moment. Do you know what happened after we left the Ministry?"

"Not really. I spoke briefly with Tonks when she brought in your friend, Scott. Apparently, the Dark Lord himself showed up and fought Dumbledore briefly, but fled with Bellatrix when he found out the prophecy was destroyed. The rest of the Death Eaters were arrested."

"What prophecy?"

"The one in the glass orb that Harry accidentally broke, the one the Dark Lord wanted to acquire."

"Why did he want it?"

"Because it involves him, and Harry Potter. Nobody can take an orb from the Hall of Prophecy if it doesn't concern him. That meant only the Dark Lord or Harry could fetch it, and the Dark Lord wasn't about to show up at the Ministry himself. Fudge and his government have been too conveniently pretending he hasn't returned, and walking into the Ministry would rather belie that."

"So he lured Harry there to do it instead?"

"Exactly."

"How?"

"For some reason, Harry and the Dark Lord are linked. At times, Harry can see and feel what the Dark Lord does. Likewise, the Dark Lord could place ideas and false visions in Harry's mind, which is why Severus was to have taught him Occlumency -- which I discovered Severus gave up on some weeks back. Why didn't you tell me?"

"I didn't know until recently either. Harry didn't tell _me_. He said the dreams had stopped."

"He lied."

Cedric just nodded. "Is this prophecy what all of you've been guarding? What Arthur Weasley was attacked for?"

"Yes."

"And now it's lost."

She shrugged. "The Dark Lord doesn't have it -- and that's what matters most. Harry isn't dead and the Dark Lord doesn't have the prophecy. And now that he's tipped his hand, Fudge can no longer deny that he's back." A shadow crossed her face. "But it cost us."

Sirius Black.

"How about the rest? Did anybody else . . . die?"

"No." She turned her head to look at Hermione in the bed. "We should contact her parents."

"She won't want that," Cedric protested. "She hasn't told her parents anything about the war, mum. She's afraid they'd make her return to the Muggle world if she did."

"She might be safer there, as a Muggle-born . . . "

"But she doesn't _belong_ there, not anymore."

"They're her parents, Cedric; they have a right to know she's at risk."

"It's not our place to tell them. When she wakes up, I'll see if she wants me to contact them."

Cedric could tell that she didn't agree and was annoyed, but it was with him in general, not about this. He knew she blamed him for getting caught at sex, and thought he'd been rash to go after Harry, and even more reckless to rush down into the Department of Mysteries after the rest of them. Perhaps she was right on all counts, but he hadn't died.

_Your baby died in your place._

The words whispered through his mind. Yet there shouldn't have _been_ a baby at all. His mother's magic had brought the child into existence, and if he'd known Hermione was pregnant, he wouldn't have let her go with Harry. He shouldn't have let her go anyway.

_And why is that?_

His male vanity again, as his mother had termed it.

He spent all the following day by Hermione's bedside, leaving only now and then to eat or visit the loo. His father replaced his mother, coming by around mid-morning to see how he was. If his father knew about the miscarriage, he said nothing. Cedric thought he probably didn't know.

It was in the early evening one day after the Ministry attack when he (and Hermione) received another visitor**:** Dumbledore. Cedric hadn't spoken to the Headmaster since the night Cedric had arrived at The Three Broomsticks. Now, he appeared without ceremony in the ward doorway and crossed to take the seat beside Cedric's wheelchair. "How is she?" he asked, his voice gentle, his face concerned.

"She'll recover, but she's still unconscious." Cedric frowned. "They didn't tell me what the curse was -- something nasty. It caused internal bleeding but she's stable now. They think she might wake by tomorrow morning."

Dumbledore just nodded, his eyes on Cedric, not Hermione. "And how are you?"

"I'm fine. I wasn't hurt at all."

"I didn't mean physically, Cedric."

And Dumbledore's use of his first name got his attention; he wondered how much Dumbledore knew. The lamplight in the ward flashed off the Headmaster's half-moon spectacles, and there was an aura of weariness about him that left Cedric wondering if he'd slept any since the fight with Voldemort. Almost, he turned Dumbledore's question around to ask how the Headmaster was, but feared it might sound cheeky rather than concerned. "I was worried," he admitted. "I'm better now. How's Harry? And Sirius? Is he really -- ?"

"Yes," Dumbledore's voice almost dragged. "He's gone. Harry is . . . as well as can be expected, considering."

"And that prophecy my mother mentioned? It broke -- the orb broke."

"That doesn't matter -- may in fact be for the best. What matters is that the full extent of it was kept from Voldemort. We can discuss the prophecy later, or Harry can tell you if he wishes." He tipped his chin. "I want to know how you feel about Hermione's miscarriage?"

The question made Cedric start, but also answered how much Dumbledore knew. Face tomato red, he lowered his eyes. "It was an accident. My mother's painting -- "

"I know; I've spoken to your mother. But that doesn't answer my question, Cedric. How do you feel about it?"

"Relieved," he replied, honestly. "But sad -- which I shouldn't be."

"Why not?"

"We didn't _want_ it, we didn't intend it. We weren't -- aren't -- ready. I'd never have wished it on her . . . "

"Of course not," Dumbledore said softly. "Yet our feelings rarely follow logic." That was true, and something seemed to be crushing Cedric's chest. He crossed his arms tightly. "There are times," Dumbledore went on, "when we feel more than one thing at once -- even contradictory things**:** love and anger, relief and sorrow."

After a moment, Cedric nodded, and Dumbledore grew even more grave. "We need to discuss what brought you here."

Cedric was genuinely puzzled for a moment, not sure what Dumbledore meant. "Sir? You mean following Harry to London?"

"No. I mean the matter of Miss Granger and her pregnancy."

Cedric's whole face flushed hot again and he looked away, too humiliated to meet Dumbledore's eyes. "I know what we did was wrong." He paused. "I'm sorry, sir. I deserved to be expelled."

"Cedric -- look at me, please." After a moment of internal struggle, Cedric did so. Dumbledore's face was serious, but not angry. "Do you understand _why_ what you did was wrong?"

Confused, Cedric just tilted his head. "Well, we, er, um . . . " He almost couldn't get the words out. "We . . . got to know each other a bit too well -- in the Biblical sense."

Dumbledore actually smiled. "No, Mr. Diggory. That isn't what you did wrong. That was simply being young, and in love." He held Cedric's eyes and Cedric felt almost as if Dumbledore knew everything, saw everything. "I don't want you to go away from this experience with the mistaken impression sexual intercourse itself is wrong or perverse. The rightness or wrongness of such an act involves _appropriate vulnerability_ -- the willingness to match such physical openness with emotional openness. There are married couples who don't understand that, and no ceremony legitimizes their failure at intimacy."

Puzzled and surprised, Cedric's brows drew together. "All that said" -- Dumbledore went on -- "what the two of you did was, indeed, wrong -- and I would be much remiss in _my_ responsibility as a teacher and guide if I failed to point that out. It was wrong because you took advantage of your positions in order to break the rules, and not for a greater good, but for your own satisfaction."

Abruptly, the old man sighed. "The unfortunate fact is that rules are often made for the lowest common denominator, and however mature you and Miss Granger may be, there are students at Hogwarts -- even those your age -- who aren't emotionally ready for a physical relationship, but may think they are. How many younger students may, in the future, use what you and Hermione have done to justify behavior they're not ready to pursue? Do you understand?"

Cedric wasn't sure, but thought perhaps so. "You're saying that we made bad role models."

Dumbledore smiled. "More or less. In some ways, you have been the very best of Head Boys, Cedric. But yes, in this one thing, I'm afraid the two of you made poor choices." Abruptly he sighed again. "Although to be fair, I somewhat blame myself for it."

Bewildered, Cedric frowned. "How were _you_ guilty?"

"I laid on your shoulders more than any Headmaster should expect of a student -- even his Head Boy. Do you remember when I asked if you would be willing to take the position? I told you I wasn't doing you a favor? I think now you understand why. Although none of us can know the future, I had a fair inkling of what this year might have brought, and could think of no one better suited to hold the student body together in the face of Dolores Umbridge. You were like a gift from Fortune, Cedric. I haven't had a Head Boy capable of doing what you did -- acting with the same wisdom, maturity and restraint -- in _years_. I expected things of you that many adults couldn't have delivered.

"Perhaps I shouldn't be so surprised, then, if you sought an equally _adult_ form of stress relief." He winked. Cedric dropped his eyes, but couldn't help grinning. Just a little. "I cannot expect you to behave and function as an adult, then treat you like a child," Dumbledore added.

"So while I want to be clear that I do not -- and cannot -- approve of what you and Miss Granger did, at least while you were at Hogwarts, I do . . . understand it. And I hope that you now understand where the true problem lay. I am and always have been more interested in _correction_ than punishment. We all err; it's the nature of being human. A good man isn't one who's perfect, but one who learns from his errors, and has compassion for the shortcomings of others.

"In any case, I came here for three reasons. First, to see how you and Miss Granger are. Second, to tell you that you may return to Hogwarts for the last few days of this term."

"I can? But Professor Umbridge -- "

"Is no longer either a professor or headmistress."

"They reinstated you!" Cedric's relief was palpable but Dumbledore's smile was faint.

"Yes, indeed they did. And as Headmaster, it is my right to revoke a decision of the previous Headmistress. You may return to school. I am not, however, re-instating you as Head Boy."

Dropping his eyes, Cedric nodded. "That's only fair -- "

"It's not for the reasons you may think. It's true that I don't want to give student couples the impression they may sneak into the prefects' bath or broom cupboards" -- Cedric's ears and neck burned again -- "but I'm not re-instating you as Head Boy because you're no longer a boy. You're a man, and I'm prepared to treat you as one. Not as a reward, but because you've shown yourself capable of adult responsibility this past year." He bent his head forward to regard Cedric over the top of his spectacles. "And that brings me to my third reason for coming. If you still wish to be involved, I think we can accept you as a full member of the Order of the Phoenix."

Cedric took a deep breath and held it a moment, then said, "_Yes_, I still want to be involved."

"Be aware that in agreeing to this, it may mean there are matters you cannot discuss with Miss Granger."

Cedric hesitated, but nodded a second time. "I understand that."

"Very well. I'll assign you as Remus' research assistant. He's quite fond of you."

Cedric nodded. "I'd like that. I think rather highly of him too." Nonetheless, he noticed that Dumbledore had said 'research.' Clearly he wouldn't be fighting Death Eaters again. At the moment, however, he was too happy to be fully included to rock the boat -- at least not about the job he was given. "Professor," he began, "I don't know how such things are done in the Order, but I'd like to suggest three other potential members."

Head tilted, curious, Dumbledore leaned forward. "Who did you have in mind?"

"My denmates -- Peter Adamson, Ed Carpenter, and Scott Summers. They've stood by me all year despite everything, and both Scott and Peter were at the Ministry. Ed would have been there too if he was better at apparating. Hufflepuff House may not be Gryffindor, but -- "

"Far be it from me to underestimate the fortitude of Hufflepuff, Cedric. Especially after this year. By remembering their ancient responsibility as Hogwarts' conscience, Hufflepuff achieved what none of the other houses could manage. They may be slow to act, but when they move, it has the force of an earthquake." He grinned, a bit mischievous. "And I should add that Miss Tonks and Mr. Shacklebolt have both complemented the skill and bravery of Mr. Summers. As for including them -- I will certainly consider it, and talk with each of them when the school year is over. The Order needs members, it's true. But I'm also mindful of the fact it's a dangerous choice to make. As someone drawn into this against your will by circumstance -- "

"It may have been by circumstance, but -- as I said last summer -- it's not against my will. Not anymore. We all have to make choices about where to stand, and I've made mine. I know they've made theirs. They'd want to fight the same as I do, if given a chance."

Dumbledore was smiling gently. "Your advocacy for your friends is impressive, Cedric, and I would hardly turn them away if they do truly wish to join our cause. I simply want to make quite certain they're aware of the full danger." He stood. "And now, I fear I must be going, but as soon as Miss Granger is recovered, I'll expect to see you both back at Hogwarts."

"Yes, sir," Cedric replied.

* * *

Hermione passed from deep unconsciousness into sleep, then into a doze so that when she finally woke, she startled herself from a dream -- or a nightmare -- with the sensation of falling. "Ah!" Her eyes snapped open and she gripped the sheets for balance.

"Hermione?" came a sleepy voice -- Cedric's -- and it was dark.

"Where's Harry? Where am I?" What had happened in the Department of Mysteries? The last thing she remembered was running back into the rotating room with Harry, and seeing Cedric in eagle form.

"It's all right," Cedric told her now in a soft voice. "You're at St. Mungo's. Harry's fine, and I understand Ron will be too."

She let out a sigh, pausing a moment, then tried to sit up but her head hurt and so did her chest and abdomen. Cedric held her down with a hand on her shoulder; it didn't take much effort from him as she felt terribly weak. "Lie still," he ordered. "You lost a lot of blood, and even with a replacement spell, the healers say you should take it easy. Besides, it's the middle of the night."

She stopped trying to rise and just breathed instead, taking stock of her body, which felt hollow and full of light. She suspected she'd been given some sort of pain potion. Cedric's hand was still on her shoulder, stroking it, and she reached up to grip it. "Are you all right? I was so scared when I saw you there -- "

"I'm just fine."

"You idiot. You shouldn't have -- "

"My girl was down there."

"I can take care of myself, Cedric Diggory."

Even in the blue-dim glow of a gas lamp, she could see he was smiling. "You sound like my mother. You're also the one in the hospital bed." The smile disappeared. "I'm not helpless, poppet. I don't like being treated as if I am."

Hermione wanted to argue with him, point out that there was a difference between treating him as if he were helpless and recognizing his very real limitations, but they could fight about it later. For now, it was enough they'd all survived --

Or had they? "What about the rest?" she asked.

"Neville, Ginny, Luna, Peter and Scott are all fine." Yet there was something tense about his eyes.

"There's something you're not telling me."

He opened his mouth, then shut it, then opened it again. "Sirius. Some members of the Order showed up to rescue us and Sirius . . . He felt through some kind of . . . magical veil hanging in an archway -- the veil between this world and the next, I suppose."

At first, what he was saying didn't quite register. A veil? Sirius had just fallen through a piece of cloth? "Sirius is . . . dead?"

"Yes."

Horrified, both her hands went up to cover her mouth. "No!"

"Shhh," he whispered, rolling his chair as close as he could to lean over and stroke her brow. "I'm sorry, poppet. You knew him longer and better than I did."

"What must Harry -- ?"

"I don't know. I haven't seen more than a handful of people since the fight. I've been here with you."

"How long?"

"Two days."

"Shit," she muttered, which made both his eyebrows rise. "Oh please, of course I know that word -- don't give me such an astonished expression" -- which only made him grin at her.

She looked around, seeking a clock, irritated that it was, as he'd said, the middle of the night. She needed to return to Hogwarts right now if Harry were there. "How close to morning is it? When can I leave? Is Harry back at Hogwarts? What happened to the prophecy? To the Death Eaters -- ?"

"Slow down," he said, voice lowered again. "It's" -- he pulled out his pocket watch -- "a bit after two, and yes, Harry's at Hogwarts. Dumbledore was here just this past evening and said we could return as soon as you were free to go, but I don't think they'll let us leave at this hour. Your healers will need to see you again at least once. As for the Death Eaters -- well, all of them were arrested except Bellatrix Lestrange. Voldemort showed up at the end and fought with Dumbledore, and Bellatrix escaped with Voldemort. I didn't see it; it happened upstairs in the Atrium. But Fudge can't deny Voldemort's return anymore; it was all over the papers this morning. The Ministry is taking fire from all directions at once."

She stared at him. "All of the rest of his followers were captured?"

"All of the rest."

"Lucius Malfoy?"

His smile was uncharacteristically vicious. "-- has been sent to Azkaban."

She let out a breath. "Will they be tried?"

"They were caught red-handed, so to speak."

"Cedric, they still deserve a trial."

He made a face. "I'm sure they'll have one, but for now they're in custody."

He'd leaned away again but was still holding her hand, his thumb moving compulsively back and forth across the top of it. He looked as if he wanted to tell her something, but didn't know where to start. "What else happened?" she asked, inviting.

"Well, the capture of the Death Eaters and the public acknowledgment that Voldemort _is_ back is most of it," he said. "Harry and I -- and Dumbledore -- are looking a bit less foolish these days."

She nodded against the pillows and squeezed his hand. "That's good."

"Fudge formally apologized to Dumbledore and reinstated him as Headmaster. I don't know what happened to Umbridge."

"The centaurs carried her off."

"_What?" _His face looked . . . shocked.

"I took her into the forest, to the centaurs. I'd thought they might scare her off, make her leave, and Harry and I could get away. It was all I could think of . . . "

"I thought you were going to the giant?"

"No, I didn't think of that. But he came and, well, sort of rescued us." And she related to Cedric everything that had happened from Harry's collapse during their History of Magic exam right through to when she'd been struck by the purple-flamed curse.

He listened quietly, but she knew him well enough to read by his expression that he wasn't happy. Now, here and out of danger, she began to feel guilty for what she'd done to Umbridge -- but only a little bit. "She was going to _torture_ Harry, Cedric. She was going to use Cruciatus. It was all I could think of on the spur of the moment. I didn't know they'd really, well, _carry her off_, but she wouldn't shut up, just kept insulting them." A new thought occurred to her. "You don't think they'd actually" -- her voice dropped -- "_kill_ her, do you?" She'd been so desperate that honestly, it hadn't occurred to her at the time.

Sighing, he ran a hand over his face. "I don't know, Hermione. I don't think she's dead or Dumbledore would have said something about it when he came by. But you can't . . . " He trailed off and she knew he was upset with her. Then abruptly he shook his head. "I can't judge you; I'm not sure I'd have been able to come up with anything so quickly -- not that would have worked. That toad was just waiting for an excuse to hurt one of us."

She nodded. "She was. And I think she was, well, um -- " She felt herself blushing, wondering if she'd just imagined what she thought she'd seen in Umbridge's expression. "I think she was a bit _excited_ by the prospect of using Cruciatus on Harry. Excited _that_ way, I mean -- um . . . _sexually_," she whispered.

Cedric leaned forward abruptly, his hold on her fingers tightening. "Are you serious?" But he didn't sound as if he doubted her.

"Yes. It was, well, a bit _disturbing_."

"Did she do or say anything openly?"

"No, no, and I may have misread it, but," she blushed again, "she looked eager."

He was nodding. "She's a sick one, all right." He frowned. "I remember how she _looked_ at me in the bath."

Hermione pulled a face. "And I remember what you and Flitwick told Fudge."

"It was true. There was another time too, later, after she took over as Head. She called Violet and me into her office, then made me stay after. She wanted to talk me into breaking up with you, and it wasn't quite flirting, but . . . it wasn't right. If you just describe what she was doing, it sounds harmless, you know? But you can tell there's this whole other level to it, like the way she looked at me half the time. She made my skin crawl."

"Why didn't you tell me about that?" Hermione asked, but he shook his head.

"I was too angry over what she said about you. And I was . . . well, I was really bothered, too." His face in the low light appeared torn between anger and shame. "I was afraid if I said anything about it, I'd sound crazy."

"Not crazy at all," she said, squeezing his hand. "After what I saw in her face when she planned to torture Harry, it wouldn't surprise me, either. You're right, she's a sick one."

She pushed away thoughts of Umbridge. "So you really weren't hurt? I was just sure when you showed up that the painting would come true -- that you'd die."

He shook his head. "My mother burned it -- the painting. When she found out I'd gone to London after you, she burned it, just in case."

Hermione sucked in a little breath. She wasn't sure how she felt about that. Relief -- she didn't want anyone ever again to see that panel of her and Cedric on May Day morning -- but sad, as well. Cedric had looked so beautiful as the god. And more to the point, that painting might have been their proof against Umbridge. Now, they didn't have it. "I'm sorry," she said. "I think you made a brilliant Summer King. As long as it wasn't literal." Rolling onto her side, she reached out to run fingers over the back of his hand and wrist and arm, wondering how to tell him what she'd come to suspect just before. With everything else that had happened, she'd never had a chance to confirm it, and she'd almost forgotten it till he mentioned the painting. "Cedric -- "

"We need to talk," he said abruptly, eyes dropping to their interlaced fingers. "Something's . . . happened."

Her breath caught and her insides twisted. Did he know? Had he found out somehow? "What?"

Abruptly he bowed his head as if somebody had punched him in the stomach, his forehead touching the edge of her bed. Frightened, she laid a hand on the back of his neck in comfort. "You miscarried," he said, almost too softly for her to make out. "You were pregnant and you miscarried."

As with his announcement about Sirius, this washed over her without making sense. Then it did.

She _had_ been pregnant. And now she wasn't. "The painting . . . "

He looked up, face stark. "Yes. You were right about it."

"It really might have killed you then . . . " she said, horrified.

"It might. Hermione, I'm sorry about the baby -- "

"It's all right." Reaching down to her abdomen, she set a hand there. Her first thought was that they'd been spared a difficult choice, and she felt less upset than she might have expected. "I didn't intend for you to find out that way."

"You knew?"

"Suspected. I was trying to make sure before I said anything."

He nodded, his thumb back to stroking her hand. "The healer will talk to you about it. I just . . . I wanted to be the one to tell you."

She studied his face as best she could in the low light. His hair was greasy from running his hands through it too much, and the corners of his mouth were slightly turned down. He looked sad, more sad than relieved. She'd been afraid he'd be upset, perhaps even angry when he found out. She hadn't expected that he might actually want a baby at their age. "Cedric, it was for the best."

He nodded again. "I know. I know it was. I just feel . . . odd. I don't even know how to explain that really. If you _were_ still pregnant, I'd probably be terrified, but you're not, so . . . it's like I have the luxury to feel sad. Sounds barmy, doesn't it?"

"Not barmy," she whispered. "When I started to suspect I was . . . well, I didn't want the baby. But it was yours. Ours. That complicated it." She looked down at their still-joined hands, glad of the darkness that made speaking such tender things easier. "I wasn't sure what you'd want, how you'd feel . . . if you'd be angry."

"Not angry," he said. "Scared, worried, not sure what to do -- never angry." He clenched her hand tightly enough to hurt and she twisted it in his grasp; their fingers were sweaty. "I know this time, it was the painting, but I worry. You need to finish school. Maybe we shouldn't -- "

"Cedric," she interrupted. "It _was_ the painting. We're careful, we're not pretending we're not going to do it and ignoring the proper spells, and those spells are pretty effective. It makes the chances low."

He nodded. "Low, but not absent. Maybe it's one in a thousand, but there is that _one_, you know? This made me realize it really could happen. I'd stand by you; you never have to doubt that. But we could go back to other things -- safer things."

Lips thin, she stared at him. He was trying to be noble, do what others expected, act responsible. "Cedric," she said, "you know it wouldn't work. It'd be the broom cupboard all over again."

"No, it wouldn't -- "

"Cedric, stop. It would. We'd have sex, then feel guilty or resent each other, or both, and it'd all start to fall apart. It's better if we just admit it's going to happen and be prepared; that's the mature thing to do." She let her gaze drop to their hands all twisted together on the sheets. "I like it that you want me that badly. And I want you. Is that so terrible?" She looked up at him again.

His eyes were soft, and in this light, they looked black, not gray. "Not terrible," he said, smiling slightly. "I love you, you know."

"I know," she said seriously. "I don't want a martyr; I don't want the Golden Boy of Hufflepuff. I want you. A brilliant, brave, slightly arrogant, sometimes vain and short-tempered, but gentle-hearted man." She could tell he was blushing even in the near-dark. "We'll be careful, we'll take precautions, and if it does happen again, however unlikely, we'll face it together, right?"

"Right." He nodded, then tipped his head. "I'm not _really_ vain, am I? I try not to be."

"I'm afraid you are, sweetheart." She grinned, impish. "But we all know you try not to be, which is why we forgive you for it. And you care about people -- that's real. You have this . . . amazing compassion."

"So do you."

"I'm bossy, I lack tact, and I worry too much about the rules."

He leaned in to stroke her hair back from her forehead. "You are bossy -- but I like bossy women. And I'd say that this year, you haven't paid a whole lot of attention to the rules, Miss Granger. Shocking in a prefect."

"Cheeky prat."

"I'm awful."

She almost laughed. "I like you awful."

"It's a good thing."

"We're terribly soppy, you know."

He grinned. "I know. Go back to sleep, poppet."

She did. When she woke again, it was late morning and Cedric was there to tell her the healer would be by at ten and if all were well, she'd be discharged.

Their return to Hogwarts came without fanfare, which suited her and Cedric too, she thought. They had only six days until the end of the year. For seventh years, classes were over and their last week was given to fooling around and preparing for the Seventh Year Leaving Ball, organized by the Head Girl and Boy.

-- which wasn't Cedric. The left breast of his school robes remained blank, and when she asked him about it, he shook his head, smiling faintly. "There's no point in removing Adrian for only six days; it'd be petty."

"It's the principle of the thing!" she argued.

"No, poppet. Being Head Boy doesn't matter to me after everything that's happened. I was Head Boy when it mattered. Let Adrian organize the party with Violet. To be honest, I'd rather not."

He did, however, get his old rooms back. It was simple convenience and nearness to the bath, and with no classes, Ed, Peter and Scott all but moved in there too. After exams, professors turned a blind eye to a lot of what the seventh years did. It was the time of their final hurrah.

Hermione spent her first evening back in the infirmary, sitting with Ron, who was still there. Harry, Ginny and Neville, and even Luna Lovegood had come too. Madam Pomfrey hovered protectively, having insisted on checking Hermione herself as if she didn't entirely trust the healers at St. Mungo's. Hermione didn't mind, as it got her a bit of pain potion herself. Dolohov's curse still ached in her ribcage and her abdomen was sore. She moved slowly. But she suspected some of the soreness came from the miscarriage. Madam Pomfrey didn't know about that.

She and Cedric had agreed they weren't telling anybody who didn't already know. Not his mates, and not Harry and Ron. When she'd seen Alicia Spinnet as she'd dropped by her room to change clothes, the other girl had asked in a soft voice if she still needed that potion. She'd said no, it was a false alarm. Now, she perched beside Ginny on the end of Ron's bed, grateful for the moratorium with her friends, leaving behind grown-up things like the fact she'd been 33 weeks from becoming a mother, and her boyfriend would be leaving school forever in 6 days. Time waited for no one, but sometimes he slowed his march a bit. And she was grateful.

"So what _did_ happen to Umbridge?" she asked.

"Dumbledore marched into the forest alone to rescue her from the centaurs the day after we got back," Ginny reported. "Nobody knows how he did it, and she didn't say a word. She was sent off to St. Mungo's -- in shock, Madam Pomfrey said. But I think she was just sulking."

Hermione was told the rest of the news then -- that Trelawney was back, and Hagrid, but Firenze would be staying as well. He was no longer welcome among the centaurs. Flitwick had rid the fifth floor of the twins' swamp, but had left a little roped-off section in tribute, and Filch was mourning the passing of Umbridge's reign. Nobody else was. Things were blessedly back to normal. Through all the gossip, Hermione watched Harry; he appeared distant, and she worried how he was taking Sirius' death. Yet when he got up to leave and she made to follow, Ron gripped her forearm to hold her back, shaking his head softly. "Let him go, Hermione. He's got enough to be going on with."

Once, Hermione might have protested, but thought she understood now. And she didn't stay much longer herself. She wanted to be alone too -- no Harry or Ron, not even Cedric. Just herself, Hermione Granger.

She wandered the halls somewhat idly. This near the year's end, after exams and the removal of Umbridge, a sort of festive air hung about the long, dank castle halls. Even the portraits and ghosts seemed to celebrate, and she could hear the sound of students chattering gaily or laughing in the distance. Yet when they passed her, they quieted to stare. No one spoke to her, which suited her mood.

In the entrance hall, she found herself arrested not by a person or portrait, but by the absence of one. The wall where Lucretia Diggory's _Cernunnos_ had hung by the stairwell seemed oddly blank, even though an old portrait had been fetched from storage to replace it. Hermione stared at the oil-and-canvas interloper as if it would magically transform into what had been.

"It was burned," said a voice behind her, and she turned, finding -- once again -- Zacharias Smith sitting on the stairs, staring at the spot the painting should have been. She was starting to wonder if he did anything else.

"So I heard," she said.

"Why?" he demanded in his usual belligerent tone. "Nobody else is telling, even Cedric."

"I don't know," she lied. If Cedric wasn't telling, she wouldn't either.

Smith appeared deeply annoyed and unfolded himself from his sitting position, then ran a hand through his dark blond hair. "You'd think the least they could do was leave it, after everything Ced's been through." Hermione wished she could tell him that burning it had _saved_ Cedric. "I bet it was Umbridge," Smith went on. "A parting shot before the centaurs got her."

His gaze shifted abruptly from the wall to her. "I heard you did that -- took her to the centaurs. Utterly brilliant, Hermione."

"She could have died."

"Yeah, so? She'd have deserved it."

His callousness tore at her, left her bloody with guilt. Yet it hadn't been Zacharias Smith who'd led Umbridge into the Forbidden Forest.

"I need to go," she said, and turning on her heel, exited the castle altogether.

Standing on the front steps outside, she took long, deep breaths of the midsummer night's air, then sat down on the lowest step and stared out across the dark grass in the direction of Hagrid's hut. Cheery yellow lights glowed in the windows, and somewhere above her an owl hooted on the hunt. She drew up her knees, wrapping arms around them, and rested her chin there.

She'd never really been much for introspection. In fact, her early love of books had developed out of a need to avoid it. As soon as she started to think too much -- to wallow and waffle and whinge, as she liked to put it -- her mind shifted to something else**: **a book, a list, homework that needed to be finished . . . anything to keep herself busy, keep her _mind_ busy and escape self analysis. After all, what was the point? She didn't like to dwell on things.

But she didn't like to dwell on them because it was sometimes painful; it involved facing guilt, or sorrow, or disappointment. She'd never considered herself to have a bad life. She'd had enough to eat, a place to sleep, clothes on her back, more toys and books than she knew what to do with, and parents who cared about her. Yet she also couldn't honestly say she'd had a _happy_ life. Before coming to Hogwarts, she hadn't had friends, and even since -- despite Harry and Ron -- she'd still felt on the outside. Not until Cedric had she known what it was to be ridiculously, blissfully _happy_, and that had been marred by the persecution of Umbridge.

Umbridge. She rubbed her hands up and down her arms.

Zacharias had said the woman would've deserved it if she'd died, and Ron thought Hermione's centaur ploy had been brilliant too -- he'd said so. Even Harry and Ginny, Neville and Luna had offered nothing critical. Yet she understood now that she could have got a woman killed.

The Wizarding World was a harsh place compared to the Muggle one. Wizards didn't sue their opponents, they challenged them to a duel. Justice was rough and ready, and she had no doubt that Umbridge would have tortured Harry until he'd either given in or died. Or gone mad. And placed in the same situation with the same choices a second time, Hermione knew she'd do it all over again exactly as she had done.

Yet she still felt unclean, and remembered the look of unease in Cedric's eyes when she'd told him about it. He hadn't approved. He'd said he couldn't judge her -- didn't have the right -- but he hadn't approved, and it was his approval she wanted more than the others'. She knew he loved her, but she wanted to be somebody he was proud of rather than somebody he needed to make excuses for, like his father. That brought to mind again the accusations of the centaurs -- that she'd used them to do her dirty work. She honestly hadn't thought of it that way, but that was only how _she'd_ seen it. To the centaurs, it had looked very different.

Not everybody in the world saw things the same way she did, and Cedric had been right about her all those months ago. She was arrogant sometimes -- about the house-elves, and about the centaurs. She might have meant well, or at least meant no harm, but that didn't make it acceptable. At least Cedric hadn't threatened her with bows and arrows, yet after her run-in with the centaurs, she finally understood what he'd tried to tell her in September.

Centaurs weren't like humans -- nor did they want to be. And neither were house-elves.

She still didn't think Cedric saw everything clearly, but he made her think in a way Harry and Ron didn't, and she'd like to believe she did the same for him. She was a better person for having him in her life. As she'd recognized before in the matter of Rita Skeeter and Marietta Edgecomb, Cedric was her moral compass.

In fact, after this year, she felt altogether different. She was no longer so obsessed with marks -- the pompous, insufferable know-it-all people had judged her to be in the past. There would always be echoes of that girl inside her, and it was a good thing Cedric didn't mind her being bossy. But she'd fallen in love with a boy and broken rules just to be with him. She'd carried his baby, however briefly. She'd also organized an illegal, clandestine rebel group, and had realized those in power didn't always deserve their office. She'd almost died -- and she'd almost killed. Nobody came back to the person they'd been after experiences like that.

Her innocence was gone. She'd drunk from Ceridwen's cauldron.

* * *

**ONE more and we're at the end ...**


	38. Blood Brothers

_**Cedric G. C. Diggory 1995 - 96**_

His name was now burned into the interior wall of the wardrobe, the only one there with a date in the 1900s. Putting away his wand and closing the spell book that Dumbledore had brought him months ago, he smiled faintly. Official Hogwarts' records would show Adrian Pucey as this year's Head Boy, as he'd held the office when it had ended.

But the wardrobe would show it had been Cedric.

A pounding on the door interrupted his thoughts, and Cedric wheeled his chair back, then went to answer. His mates stood on the other side, along with Susan and Hermione. "Get your robes on," Scott told him. "You're going to be late."

"It's just a party," Cedric replied, snatching his school robes off the back of the settee out from under Esiban, who'd been curled up on them. He turned them inside out to match his classmates'. "Whoever gets to a party on time?"

Unobtrusively, Peter offered Cedric a hand to grip while he stood to don the robe so he didn't have to fetch his crutches. Cedric wondered who'd originally come up with the idea of turning robes inside out, but it had been a tradition now for decades. Seventh years attended the Leaving Ball dressed like that. Unlike the Triwizard Yule Ball, the Leaving Ball was neither a dance nor a formal, despite its name. It was largely an excuse for seventh years to get together one last time, share stories and eat a lot. Girlfriends and boyfriends were allowed but not required or even expected to attend; Susan would be going with Ed and Hermione with Cedric, but Peter was attending alone -- and so was Scott.

It seemed the great Casanova of Hufflepuff had finally met his match -- a woman who'd run off with his heart in her (clumsy) grip. Scott couldn't put together three sentences without Tonks' name creeping in. Cedric, Ed and Peter had all agreed that they wouldn't take the mickey out of him too badly -- no matter how absolutely hysterical they found this turn of events.

They all left Cedric's room. Peter was the last one out and closed the door, and they walked down to pile into the lift, which was a bit tightly packed with Cedric in the chair, Hermione in his lap, plus Scott, Peter, Ed and Susan. Cedric couldn't see what floor had been punched and didn't realize it wasn't the ground floor when he wheeled out behind the others. When he did recognize the hallway as that of the third-floor, he stopped the chair. "Aren't we going to the Great Hall?"

"No," Ed replied, but offered nothing else, leading the way.

"Where are we going then?" Cedric asked. The Leaving Ball was always in the Great Hall.

"You didn't hear Violet moved it? Just follow me."

That sounded suspicious, especially as nobody else seemed surprised. Maybe there had been an announcement of the change of place posted on the house notice boards where he wouldn't have seen it. So he followed. It wasn't until they were nearly there that he recognized where they were headed**:** the Common Room.

The _Hogwarts_ Common Room.

Ed had stopped just outside the door, turning to grin broadly and make an 'after you' gesture to Cedric. "I thought it was closed," Cedric said.

"Not any more," Peter replied, practically bouncing on the balls of his feet. All of them, in fact, were smiling with varying degrees of delight. He wheeled past them into the room that had been his brainchild, his one significant contribution to Hogwarts.

It looked the way it had before it had been closed, although the study tables had been moved to the edges of the room to hold the food, leaving space for people to congregate. There was no crowd waiting to shout in surprise or otherwise embarrass Cedric, and he was glad of that. Several people who'd arrived already turned at his entrance and waved, but nothing more. Adrian Pucey had seen him enter too, and Cedric caught him sneer slightly before turning away. No doubt he hadn't wanted to hold the ball here; Violet must have twisted his arm.

In fact, at his arrival she broke off her conversation with another girl from her house and came over to -- uncharacteristically for her -- bend and embrace him. "I'm glad you're back," she said.

"Thanks for doing this," he told her sincerely as she drew away.

She shrugged with one shoulder. "It seemed like the logical place; the Great Hall was always too big for such a small party." And she was right. With only eight to ten students from each house, and even allowing for the third who had come with pupils from other years, there weren't a lot of people. The Common Room was precisely the sort of venue suited to a party like this. "Did you bring the Cup back?" she asked.

"What cup?"

"That Cup." Peter reached over Cedric's shoulder from behind to place the Triwizard Cup in his lap. Cedric looked around; Peter must have picked it up off the desk as they'd left Cedric's room. He ran his palm along the cool of the silver and crystal. It had cost him so much.

Rolling over to the empty plinth where it had once been, he pulled out his wand to Levitate it back into place. "There," he said to himself before returning to his friends.

Several professors dropped by that evening to wish the seventh years well, including McGonagall who made sure to speak to Cedric. Nothing was said about his temporary expulsion or the reason for it. McGonagall did mention that she'd heard from Paolo Sweeney, but they hadn't discussed Cedric beyond Sweeney saying he'd probably get a letter off to Cedric a week or two after receiving his NEWT results.

"Lovely. NEWTs never arrive until well into August," he muttered after McGonagall had moved on. "I can worry my way through the summer."

"I'm sure you did fine, Cedric." Hermione squeezed his shoulder. She wore his pearls tonight with a pretty blue-and-tan top, and sat in a chair as close as the sloped wheels of his own chair would allow -- which wasn't as close as he'd have liked.

"Come and sit on my lap," he said, tugging at her hand. "And doing 'fine' isn't enough. I'll have to have been brilliant for Sweeney to be interested, and frankly, I doubt it. I'm going to be looking for other jobs, trust me."

"And Ron tells me _I'm_ a pessimist." She glared at him and resisted his pull. "The room is full of people, Cedric; sitting on your lap is a bit intimate, don't you think?"

"I'm pretty sure they've all heard by now that we've been a lot more intimate than just you sitting on my lap." He rather enjoyed the way blood flamed in her cheeks, and she touched the pearls at her neck, running fingertips over them. "Come on," he wheedled. "I'm not going to run from this, or let anybody think I'm putting distance between us now."

"Coming with you at all hardly constitutes 'running' or 'putting distance.'"

"Yeah, well, I don't want them thinking it's just for show. Come here." And he tugged harder until she finally gave in, got out of her chair, and settled in his lap.

"I'm not crushing your legs, am I?"

"You're not that heavy, poppet." And he pulled her back to rest against him. It felt good to hold her; he hadn't had many chances since their return. They'd behaved themselves. Then again, with the prospect of the whole of summer ahead to visit back and forth, stealing privacy for snogging (or other things) didn't seem so critical.

The formal, castle-bound part of the Leaving Ball drew to a close at curfew when the younger students headed back to their house common rooms (or to prefect duties in Hermione's case). But for seventh years, it was tradition for them all to trundle down to the Three Broomsticks in Hogsmeade where the noisier and considerably less sober part of the party took place. The only rules were that they had to be in the castle by sunrise, they could bring no alcohol back with them (Filch always checked), and Madam Rosmerta gave out no room keys. Most of the students would sleep through the next day until time for the Leaving Feast.

There was a surprise visit from the Weasley twins, who showed up to celebrate with their former classmates and brought fireworks. This year, the party seemed wilder than usual. They'd all seen the articles in _The Daily Prophet_; they knew Voldemort was back and a second war loomed. In the face of such gravity, time for play was precious. Yet Cedric's heart wasn't in it. A little after two in the morning, he left the pub, transformed, and flew back to the castle. That was a bit tricky at night, as eagle vision might be better than human eyesight in daylight, but not after dark. The moon was out but even so, when he came down to the lawn just outside the castle entrance, he miscalculated where the ground was and nearly crashed into it before resuming human form. He wound up on his arse in a tangle of inside-out robes. At least no one was there to see.

Or so he thought until he heard feet hurry over and Harry suddenly appeared out from under his cloak. "Cedric? Are you all right?" He leaned over Cedric, then abruptly drew back, nose scrunched up. "Are you drunk?"

Sitting up, Cedric let himself laugh a little. "No -- a bit tipsy, but not drunk. I no doubt smell like a pub, though, because that's where we were. It's just that as an eagle, I don't see as well in the dark. I sort of missed the ground." That won a thin smile from Harry as Cedric pushed himself to his feet on the crutches with Harry's assistance. "But what are you doing out here? And be glad I'm not Head Boy anymore."

Harry tilted his head sideways, expression skeptical, or what of his expression Cedric could see in the dark. "You wouldn't report me," he said with a degree of certainty that Cedric found annoying because he was right. Cedric _wouldn't_ have reported him even if he were Head Boy.

"Are you still angry with me?" he asked.

"Eh?" Harry appeared genuinely confused. "Angry with you about what?

"You said it was my fault the Death Eaters took Ginny."

Harry's whole expression crumpled. "None of it was your fault, Ced. You were just trying to keep me from being a bigger idiot than I already was. I was the one who put people in danger, not you. I was the one who let Voldemort trick me."

Which was true. But Harry looked as if he'd already beaten himself up quite thoroughly about that and didn't need to be kicked when he was down. "Harry," Cedric said softly, "Voldemort has been fooling people for fifty years. One of his own Death Eaters tricked _Dumbledore_ for months on end, posing as Moody -- who Dumbledore knew pretty well. Dumbledore's over 150, and you're only 15. I think you can cut yourself some slack."

"TELL THAT TO SIRIUS!" Harry bellowed, his face twisted up into something Cedric thought was grief as much as rage. "But you can't, can you? BECAUSE HE'S DEAD. AND IT'S MY FAULT. He came to rescue me and I got him killed!"

Cedric honestly wasn't sure how to reply. If he lied or made less of it or gave Harry platitudes, the other boy wouldn't be taken in. Harry was no fool. But to Cedric's mind, there was plenty of blame to go around. If Cedric had been paying closer attention to Harry and less to sneaking around in broom cupboards with Hermione, he might have realized the boy was lying about his Occlumency lessons. For that matter, Cedric still wasn't sure why Dumbledore hadn't just told Harry the truth in the first place about Voldemort being able to enter his mind and trick him. That would have been incentive enough for Cedric to stay in the lessons, in Harry's shoes.

But perhaps not enough for Harry. Harry had a different temperament, and was three years younger. At that age, he still thought he could take on the whole world. Sometime between 15 and 18 you realized you couldn't, Cedric thought. Then again, if he'd really grown up so much, he'd have gone directly to his mother as soon as Ed, Scott and Peter had come to tell him what had happened with Harry, Hermione and Umbridge. Instead, he'd fled the Three Broomsticks because he'd known his mother would stop him. He'd arrogantly thought he alone could make Harry listen.

Now, though, Cedric had an inkling of how to respond to Harry's pain. "Let's walk," he said. "If Filch is watching from a window, we'll both be in trouble -- you for being out here and me for letting you."

Harry's expression remained sullen, but he followed Cedric towards the greenhouses. Summer night noises surrounded them and Cedric had to be extra careful in the dark not to trip over something with his crutches.

"You going to try and talk some sense into me?" Harry asked.

Cedric smiled where Harry couldn't see. "I don't know. Do you want me to?"

Harry only frowned by way of reply, and Cedric thought he did want somebody to do that, probably in equal measure to wanting somebody he could blame for it all so he could stop blaming himself. Guilt ate at a person like acid.

"Actually, I was going to tell you something," Cedric said now, "but first, I need your word you won't tell another soul -- not even Ron. Not without Hermione's permission. In fact, I probably shouldn't be telling you without her permission; we agreed we wouldn't tell anybody who didn't already know. But I hope she'll forgive me."

Now Harry appeared downright curious, which was quite an improvement. "What's so secret?"

They'd reached the set of stones halfway between the castle and greenhouses that Cedric had been aiming for. He lowered himself to sit on the grass, pulling out his flask of Abdoleo. His legs were killing him now that the alcohol was wearing off. It had been a long day. "Have a seat," he said to Harry, who joined him, settling down cross-legged in front of him, his cloak draped over his knees. Harry wore a light sweater. Even at the height of summer, Scotland nights weren't warm.

"Hermione was pregnant," Cedric said, deciding not to beat around the bush. "She miscarried." Harry's jaw nearly hit his ankles. "It's a long story, but essentially that painting my mother made? It did things even she wasn't aware of." Briefly the anger flared up inside him again but he beat it down. "It caused us to forget a few essential spells at key moments." His smile was wry. "The curse Dolohov hit her with caused her to miscarry." Harry was still looking gobsmacked. "If I hadn't been there -- if she hadn't seen me and cried out -- Dolohov might not have noticed her. Or she might've been able to duck if she hadn't been paying more attention to me. I got my own child killed, Harry."

After a very long pause during which Harry shifted about uncomfortably, he finally asked, tentatively, "Would you have wanted to keep it, though?" The moonlight flashed off his glasses.

"I don't know," Cedric replied. "These sorts of questions only seem easy until you have to answer them. Real life isn't hypothetical.

"It's not the same as you losing Sirius, and I'm not trying to compare the two. Nor do I want you to add this to the weight you're already carrying. It's not yours to carry. The truth is I feel very _ambivalent_ about the whole thing. We were saved from having to make a really awful decision, you know? So I'm enormously relieved. But I'm also a little sad. It's hard to sort out." Harry nodded cautiously and Cedric continued, "I thought I should tell you. I feel guilty because my decision to go into the Department of Mysteries ended up making her lose our baby -- even if it wasn't a baby we wanted or planned to have and might not have kept. Just like you went there to try to save Sirius from being killed, only to have him wind up falling through that veil."

They sat in silence for a while. Harry didn't offer Cedric condolences, and Cedric left Harry to his own thoughts. It was a comfortable silence and Cedric thought he might have drifted off for a bit with his back against the stone because he started awake when Harry said abruptly, "I'm going to have to kill him."

Thinking he must have misheard, Cedric asked, "What? Kill who?"

"Voldemort."

Cedric shook his head, struggling to wake up. "Kill Voldemort? I'm sure half the Wizarding World would like to kill Voldemort, but -- "

"It has to be me, Cedric. That's what the prophecy was about, the one that broke? The one that Voldemort wanted? He heard part of it before, but only part. He didn't hear the most important part, the part he thought would tell him how to kill me."

Cedric bent forward. "How do you know what it said, if it broke?"

"Dumbledore heard it. He was the one the prophecy was given to, and the one who gave it? It was Trelawney -- years ago. She really does have the power of prophecy, but most of what comes out of her mouth is rubbish." Cedric nodded. "She gave me a prophecy once too, in my third year -- about Peter Pettigrew, the one who really betrayed my parents. I didn't know she'd given this other to Dumbledore years before in the Hog's Head. Half of it was overheard, but not the last half."

He took a deep breath and went on. "Basically, it foretold my birth -- or really, just the birth of a baby at the end of July who'd have the power to kill Voldemort. But there were two babies born at the end of July who could've fulfilled the prophecy -- me and Neville Longbottom."

"_Neville?_"

"Yeah, it could have been Neville, Cedric, but Voldemort decided for some reason I was the threat, so he went after me and my parents. The prophecy said, 'the Dark Lord will make him his equal.'" Harry rubbed his scar, then took another breath and plunged on, as if needing to get this out. "But whoever overheard Trelawney got caught, and didn't hear that part of the prophecy, so Voldemort didn't know that if he tried to attack me, he'd give me some of his own power. And he didn't hear the rest of the prophecy**:** 'He will have power the Dark Lord knows not . . . and either must die at the hand of the other for neither can live while the other survives.'"

Cedric just sat and blinked, taking it all in. Harry would have to be the one to kill Voldemort. Nobody else could do it.

What must it be like to bear such a burden?

It wasn't the prediction that he'd have to kill somebody in order to survive that Cedric thought must be the hardest part. Cedric -- who'd barely been able to kill the fish he'd caught in the lake as a child -- wouldn't hesitate to kill Voldemort. That _thing_ Cedric had seen in the graveyard barely deserved the label 'human,' and he'd take the weight off Harry's shoulders if he could.

But he couldn't. According to the prophecy, only Harry could do it, and if something happened to Harry, the entire Wizarding World was buggered.

And _that_ was the burden Cedric pitied him for -- to bear that sort of responsibility, to be "the one," especially when he'd not been given a choice. For a little while the previous year, Cedric had lived a taste of that. He'd been the one chosen to represent Hogwarts. Yes, Harry had been chosen too, but that had been a fluke. It was Cedric who'd borne the brunt of the school's hopes and expectations, especially at first. And he'd had absolutely no idea what that would be like when he'd put his name in the Goblet, or he'd never have done so. He hadn't slept well all year, not only on the nights before tasks, and he'd been given more than a few sleeping droughts by Madam Pomfrey. Some days he'd walked about the halls bent-shouldered from the weight of it all.

Yet Harry had been there too, and once Cedric had got used to the idea, having a partner-rival of sorts had helped -- had helped enormously, in fact. So now, he leaned forward to pat Harry's forearm. "You may be the only one who can kill him, Harry, but you're not the only one who'll face him. You've got Ron and Hermione -- and you've got me. You've got a lot of people who'll support you, and not just in some melodramatic sense of laying down their lives for you."

Removing his hand, he went on, "You know after you'd told me about the dragons last year, I don't think I slept three hours in a row. I was bloody terrified. I was throwing up in the toilet the morning of the First Task. I had to face the dragon alone, but it was Ed and Peter and Scott who came into the toilet that morning, cleaned me up and got me dressed and took me out there. At the time, I thought I was all alone and I was so jealous of you when Hermione showed up in the tent. But looking back now, I see I wasn't. It's not a small thing to clean up your mate's spew, you know?" He smiled slightly, and won a small answering smile from Harry.

"So I suppose I'm saying I'll be there to clean up yours, if that's what you need -- kind of like a big brother, yeah?"

"I never had a big brother," Harry said. "Well, obviously."

"I never had a little brother. Always wanted one."

"Yeah, me too -- wanting a brother I mean. Ron's like a brother; he's my best mate but . . . "

"He's your age. It's not the same."

"Right. Sometimes you need to talk to somebody older. You've been there all year when I needed to talk. Rather like . . . like Sirius."

"I'm not trying to take his place, Harry."

"I know. I didn't expect you were. But Ron has more than one older brother."

"So he does."

"And Sirius was more . . . he was my dad's age. He was like an uncle. You're like a brother."

"There are brothers born, and brothers made -- that's what the Ojibway say. Here." Impulsively, he pulled his wand. "You've heard of blood brothers, right?"

Harry appeared startled, but nodded. "Well, the Muggle sort, yeah. Is it different in the Wizarding world?"

Cedric nodded. "It's a binding vow. We've fought together twice now. You saved my life and I saved yours. That's enough to make it, if you want." Then he added, "It's not a small thing." He felt compelled to be honest. "It's _really_ not a small thing."

Harry hesitated only a moment before nodding once, decisively. "I want to."

Taking his wand and feeling a bit rash, Cedric whispered a sharpening spell, then drew it lightly over his palm, opening a long, shallow scratch. Blood welled black in the moonlight and now Harry seemed startled, even put off that it involved real blood. Only belatedly did Cedric recall that Voldemort had used Harry's own to resurrect himself last year, but before Cedric could tell Harry to forget it, Harry pulled his own wand, then hesitated. "Uh, don't know that spell."

"Give me your hand; I'll be careful." His eyes met Harry's in the dark. "This isn't the sort of magic Voldemort used, Harry."

Nodding, Harry held out his left hand for Cedric to draw the wand lightly over the skin, opening a matching shallow cut. Harry didn't even flinch. Then Cedric gripped Harry's cut hand in his own. "I vow," Cedric said, "to be loyal to you as if you and I were born from the same womb. Your blood is my blood from this day forward."

Harry licked his lips and repeated it**:** "I vow to be loyal to you as if you and I were born from the same womb. Your blood is my blood from this day forward."

Cedric could feel the tingle of the spell flow up his arm and sweep all through him, making him gasp. "Wow," Harry muttered, mouth a little open.

"It's a very old magic -- binding."

"Like with the Goblet of Fire?"

"Yeah, sort of."

"So then you're . . . like family."

"Not 'like,' Harry. I am family. I'm your brother now, the same as if we'd been born so."

They paused a moment; the darkness and silence both a witness to and a protection from the tenderness of the exchange. Cedric began to worry if perhaps he'd been too forward, if emotion had made him push Harry into something Harry hadn't wanted -- until he suddenly found himself with an armful of boy who clung tightly for a few minutes. "Thank you," Harry whispered before jumping to his feet and running back to the castle, as if embarrassed by his own outburst.

Entering the castle a few minutes later, Cedric was startled by a soft voice off to one side. "That was a noble thing you did, Cedric, and a brave one, to bind yourself to Harry Potter."

A wand ignited, showing Dumbledore's face, unusually grave.

"How did you know?" Cedric asked. "Do you hear _everything_?"

Dumbledore's smile was faint. "I wasn't eavesdropping, no, but invoking such an ancient magic inside the castle grounds disturbed the wards. It woke me. I came to investigate who it had involved when Harry came dashing through the front door, looking as if somebody had given him the world."

"But he was wearing his cloak. How do you know what he looked like . . . "

Dumbledore just tilted his head as if to say, 'Come now.'

"I hope I didn't push him into it."

"Cedric, the magic of a blood vow doesn't lie solely in the blood and the words said. Like the forbidden curses, the ones speaking the vows must _mean_ them. It was your sincerity, and Harry's, that activated the magic."

Abruptly Dumbledore extinguished the light. "I'm glad that Harry has such a heart as yours behind him." Cedric could hear him walking away. His voice drifted back, "Good night, Cedric."

* * *

"Ron's really upset."

Cedric looked up from his journal as Hermione let herself back into their compartment on the Hogwarts Express. She'd been in the one next door with Harry and Ron, Neville and Luna and Ginny while Cedric had waited, writing and watching the Scottish highlands slip away behind them. This might be his last trip on the Hogwarts Express, but he felt less melancholy than he'd expected. He wasn't wearing his robes -- hadn't put them on that morning, although some seventh years had. He didn't feel like a student anymore. There were things he'd miss about Hogwarts -- the prefects' bath not least -- but it was the people he'd been tied to. That phase of his life was over, but he felt oddly content in it being so, ready to move on.

"Why's he upset?" he asked now, puzzled.

"That whole business with the blood brother thing, Ced." She settled down across from him. "He feels as if you're taking his place. First you started going out with me, and now Harry."

"I'm not going out with Harry."

She pursed her lips to resist laughing. "You know what I mean."

"It's not the same."

"You try telling him that."

"Fine, I will. Tell him I want to talk to him."

She sighed grandly and muttered, "I feel like an owl," but rose to exit the compartment again.

Technically, they were sharing with Ed and Susan. The train was simply too crowded for two students to have a compartment to themselves, even if one was the ex-Head Boy. But they'd worked out an agreement so that Cedric and Hermione would find another compartment to spend some time in, and Ed and Susan would do the same, thereby allowing each couple a bit of privacy.

Unfortunately, he and Hermione seemed to be spending theirs mediating a minor spat between Harry and Ron.

It must have taken some convincing by Hermione, because a good five minutes passed before the compartment door opened to admit a sour-faced Ron Weasley. He plopped down in the corner furthest from Cedric. "What?" he said, surly.

"I'm not taking your place, you know."

"What makes you think I think you are?" Ron asked, as if Cedric were an arrogant prat even to suggest it, but then he immediately went on, "It's not like you waltzed in and took up all Hermione's time and told her to stop sharing her notes with me, or started being Harry's confidant and made him your blood brother. Nah, that's not trying to take my place at all, is it?"

Cedric bit his tongue at Ron's morose if exaggerated summation. "Does Harry matter more to you than Charlie?"

Ron blinked and wiped his overlong red fringe out of his face. "What sort of question is that?"

"Just answer it."

"I can't answer that! It's not a fair question. Charlie's my brother. Harry's my best mate."

"Exactly," Cedric said.

Ron blinked at him a moment, then something behind his eyes shifted, and Cedric knew he'd got the point. "I'm not taking your place, Ron. Nobody could. Just like Charlie couldn't take Harry's for you, or the reverse."

Still sullen, Ron said, "You asked Hermione out."

And there, finally, it was bared between them. "So I did. I'm not going to apologize for getting there before you. I didn't even know you were interested then." Ron continued to glare. "What? You think I should back off now? It's a little late for that. I love her."

Finally, Ron dropped his eyes. "Yeah, I know." It was, Cedric thought, an odd sort of blessing. Getting to his feet, Ron shuffled out.

"She still needs you too," Cedric said before the door could shut. "I won't be there next year. You and Harry have to watch over her. Don't tell her I said that."

Ron poked his head back around the edge of the compartment door. "She's pretty good at taking care of herself."

"I know. I'm still allowed to worry."

Ron just nodded once and the door shut. Before Hermione could come back in, however, Cedric heard a commotion in the aisle outside and grabbed his crutches, pushing to his feet to make his way out and see what was afoot.

Three . . . slugs were rolling about on the aisle's red carpet. "What the devil?"

Hermione had a hand over her mouth to hide a laugh, but the rest of the people standing about in the hallway -- all from the D.A., Cedric noted -- weren't being so polite. "It's Malfoy, Crabbe and Goyle," Hermione told him. "They tried to gang up on Harry -- they just didn't realize whose compartment they were standing in front of when they did it."

Cedric looked up, grinning at his (former) housemates -- Ernie and Justin and Hannah, Scott and Peter. Neville was there too, wand still out, looking triumphant, as was Luna. Ed and Susan were coming back, but they seemed only confused. "Why are giant slugs on the train?" Ed asked.

Everyone else burst out laughing, even Cedric.

Cedric and Hermione finally got actual time alone an hour or two later, after the trolley lady had been in. At a hint from Cedric, Ed took Susan visiting again and left Cedric and Hermione the compartment for snogging, which they lost no time in doing, to Esiban's annoyance since it meant Cedric's lap wasn't available to him. But mostly, Cedric just wanted to hold her, her head tucked under his chin, her small body pressed to his chest. Since seeing her fall in the Department of Mysteries, he hadn't been able to get enough of that. Now, she seemed satisfied to let him wrap her up in his arms and stroke her hair with the hand still bandaged from his oath. She stroked his shoulder and chest atop his shirt. His heart beat slow and content in time with the chugging of the train, and the compartment swayed in a comfortable rhythm he'd grown used to. For a little while, they just breathed. Finally, she spoke in a soft voice. "Why did you tell Harry about the miscarriage?"

So Harry had said something to her; Cedric had meant to tell her himself first, but hadn't had a chance. "He was feeling guilty over Sirius. It was the only thing I could think of to break through the wall he'd built. I know I should have asked you first; I'm sorry."

She shook her head against his shoulder. "I'm not angry, just . . . surprised. He asked if I wanted to talk about it -- which is a bit odd for Harry."

"Did you?"

"No." She shifted, as if uncomfortable, then said, "I keep thinking I should feel worse about losing the baby, but I don't. I just wasn't ready."

"I know. And there's no rule about how you should feel, Hermione. I'm still not sure how I feel."

She was quiet again for a while, then asked, "Would you have wanted us to keep it?"

"Not if you didn't want to."

Pulling away, she looked him in the eye. "I'm asking what _you_ would have wanted."

"I would've wanted to do what --"

"No. Stop that," she said, hands gripping his shoulders to shake him gently. "You are far, far too inclined to modify what you want to please other people, Cedric Diggory. If you keep doing that, you'll just wind up unhappy and resentful of people. I'm asking what _you_ would have wanted, just you."

Uncomfortable and uncertain what to say, he shifted his gaze away from her. "I didn't want a baby. Not yet. My father lost his job and I haven't got one yet. How could I afford to raise a child? I'm not ready to be completely responsible for another human being like that. But that sounds so . . . selfish. And the weird part is that I don't know if I could have given it up. Which makes absolutely no sense, does it? I didn't want it, but I wouldn't have wanted you to get rid of it either. Yet there's a difference between wanting something and just not wanting to give it up. Not wanting to give it up is selfish too, isn't it?"

She pressed her forehead to his. "You worry too much about being selfish. You're not, all right? You're not. You're just being honest." She pulled back to look at him again, running thumbs down his cheeks. "That's all I wanted was for you to be honest. I thought you were feeling worse about this than me. I got tired of you telling me what you thought I wanted to hear. I need to tell you something too. I don't think it was the curse that made me miscarry."

He blinked at her. "No?"

"I didn't remember at first, but when I did . . . Well, my tummy was hurting even before I was hit by that curse, and I felt _wet_ down there -- thought I'd had a little _accident_ or something. Now I realize I'd already started to bleed. So it had to have happened before I was cursed."

"What did it then?"

"I think it happened when your mother burned the painting. It was all bound up together -- the baby and the painting -- so when she burned the painting, when she stopped the magic, that took the baby too." Cedric felt his mouth go dry as the pieces finally fell together. Of _course_. "It had to be done, Cedric," she told him, as if reading his upset in his face. "It would've killed you. Your mother didn't know I was pregnant."

But Cedric wasn't so sure of that.

He'd assumed she'd realized what was happening to Hermione in the Department of Mysteries because she'd been through miscarriages herself. But what if she'd known Hermione hadn't just lost her virginity on Beltane? What if she'd known the painting would've made her pregnant and that burning it would cause her to lose the baby? Had she traded the life of his unborn child for his without asking him?

Recognizing that she might have done that made him _angry_. She'd created the painting to protect him, she'd said. And she'd burned it to save him. Yet she hadn't asked _him_ either time, nor told him the full consequences. She'd just done it because she thought it best, as if he were eight, not eighteen. Even if he didn't think himself ready yet to be a father, he wasn't a child and didn't like being treated as if he were.

He swallowed these suspicions; Hermione didn't need to know them. But he was going to have a little _chat_ with his mother after they were home. Now, he pulled her back against him and she turned her mouth up to his even as her hand slid down from his chest over his belly to the front of his trousers, rubbing firmly.

"Hermione -- "

"We have" -- he could feel her shift to raise her arm and see her watch -- "at least fifteen minutes before Susan and Ed come back. And I won't get to see you for a whole _week_ after today."

"Oh, torture."

"It will be. I don't know how I'm going to make it through next year."

"Don't talk about next year yet. We still have the whole summer. And you did promise to take me to the cinema, among other things." He returned to the kiss as her hand returned to the front of his trousers. He slipped his own up her thigh beneath her school skirt -- which he suspected she hadn't worn just to be proper. "You might want to lock the door, just in case," he said. They might not be allowed to have intercourse yet, but there were other things to do and he doubted it would take fifteen minutes.

* * *

Disembarking was a madhouse, as always, but on this his last time, everything seemed more intense, the goodbyes and promises to write more urgent. If he hadn't felt sad or nostalgic on the train, he did now. Some faces he knew he'd see again, and soon -- Ed, Peter and Scott, for instance. Others, he didn't know that he'd ever see again. Roger Davies shook his hand and said laughingly, "Someday I'll be able to tell my kids I went to school with Cedric Diggory."

He gripped Roger's hand in return. "And I'll be able to tell mine I went to school with Roger Davies."

Davies' smile was wry. "Somehow, I suspect it won't be as significant."

"Don't doubt yourself, Roger."

Violet came to say goodbye as well. As she also shook his hand, she passed something into it, then bent to kiss his cheek where he sat in his chair, and whispered, "Dumbledore told me to give you that. He found it in Umbridge's desk."

And she walked away. Cedric looked down at what he held, shiny gold with the Hogwarts crest:

**H.B.  
Diggory**

His badge. Smiling, he pocketed it. Hermione had come back from saying her goodbyes and walked beside him as they made for the portal that exited from platform 9¾. Students passed through as the conductor indicated it was safe to do so. Getting Cedric through in a wheelchair with a raccoon on his lap was a little more complicated, but finally he was waved past.

He didn't immediately see his parents until Hermione pointed to them, busy talking to her own mother and father. "At least they get along," he said and she nodded. With their parents momentarily occupied, they went to say goodbye to Harry, who stood amid a circle of red-haired Weasleys and several members of the Order -- Lupin, Tonks with her bright pink hair, and Moody wearing his funny bowler hat. Scott, Cedric noted, was standing a little way behind, trying to appear nonchalant as he struggled to catch Tonks' eye.

It appeared that the Order members were ganging up on a heavyset man with a walrus mustache, a needle-thin woman with permed hair, and an even more heavy-set boy with slanted, lazy eyes. "Who're they?" Cedric whispered to Harry as he rolled up beside him. Esiban climbed up onto his shoulder to nose Harry, who rubbed the raccoon's ears.

"It's my Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon," Harry whispered back, "and my cousin Dudley."

Moody, Lupin, Tonks and Arthur Weasley appeared to be giving the mustachioed man the what-for, which Cedric found hugely amusing. Hermione had told him all about Harry's uncle, and he nearly laughed aloud when the elder Dursley attempted to stand up to Moody's threat with, "And do I look like the kind of man who can be intimidated?" -- only to have Moody show him his magical eye. Dursley leapt backwards straight into a luggage trolley, knocking suitcases flying and earning curses from an attendant.

"Yes," Moody said, "I'd have to say you do, Dursley."

Biting his lip, Cedric waited as Moody turned to Harry. "So, Potter . . . give us a shout if you need us. If we don't hear from you for three days in a row, we'll send someone along . . . " The tall, thin woman practically whined at that. Moody gripped Harry's shoulder. "Bye, then, Potter."

"Take care, Harry," Lupin added. "Keep in touch."

"Harry, we'll have you away from there as soon as we can," Mrs. Weasley whispered as she hugged him.

Cedric gripped Harry's hand. "Write. Or I'll fly over to check on you."

He moved back to let Ron in. "We'll see you soon, mate," Ron said as Hermione added, "Really soon, Harry. We promise."

As he left the small circle, Cedric made certain to pass Dudley Dursley where he stood behind his parents, trying to look inconspicuous -- a difficult task for somebody who must weigh over 15 stone. If Cedric didn't normally bother with schoolyard intimidation games, he suspected that was all this whale of a boy understood. "You and your gang harass Harry," he warned the boy, "and you'll answer to me."

"Who are you, crip?" Dudley asked, almost sneering. "And what is _that_?" He pointed a finger in Esiban's face.

Cedric rolled backwards. "That is a raccoon -- and I'd move your finger. Holding a hand over his head is an aggressive gesture." As if to prove Cedric's point, Esiban growled at Dudley, who jerked away. "As for who I am, I was the Head Boy and Triwizard Champion. I may be in a wheelchair, but I'm pretty sure I could still hex the bollocks off the likes of you."

He rolled away then, Hermione scurrying to join him. "Did you _have_ to engage in the pissing contest too?"

Cedric shrugged. "Moody put the fear of his wand into Mr. Mustache. I figured maybe the younger version needed a talking to as well, just in case he thought none of that applies to him."

She sighed. "Men. It's all about 'my wand is bigger than yours.'"

He smiled. "Yeah, sometimes it is, poppet." His grin turned wicked. "And I don't recall you ever complaining about the size of my, er, wand."

She flushed scarlet. "You're awful."

"You like me awful."

"I just like you. God knows why."

"It's my charming smile and winsome personality, of course." Still grinning, he sent himself out in front of her with a firm push of his arms, headed towards their parents. "Come on, Granger. It's time to go home."

**= THE END =**

* * *

******Again, reviews are adored. If you have read this novel all the way to the end, and enjoyed it (or even if you havent' enjoyed it) ... consider paying the piper. A novel of this size takes a lot of time not just to write, but to edit and make presentable. If this were a print novel, you'd be shelling out at least $7.99 for a pocket paperback of this size, or $16.00 for a trade paperback. Hitting "Review this story/chapter" is a lot easier than driving to a bookstore, not to mention cheaper. *grin*  
**

******Please continue on to the next part for information on the SEQUEL -- Dulce et decorum est -- as well as some end notes about the writing of this, the myth of the Summer King, et. all. The last part is all Cedric's poetry found in the novel, collected in one entry.  
**


	39. Author's Afterword

**=ENDNOTES TO FINDING HIMSELF=**

In print, this novel would be c. 800 pages, just a bit shorter than the one by Rowling on which it's based. It came about in an odd way. It wasn't the first story featuring Cedric that I did, nor even the first Cedric!Lives novel that I conceived of, but it is the one that ran away with my brain . . . more or less literally. This novel was written in 9 months.

Keep in mind that my average turn-around time on a novel (fanfic or profic) is about 18 months . . . so I wrote this one in about half the time I usually do. Why the speed? I'm not sure. I've only ever written one other novel at this rate, and ironically, it was also a fanfic novel and also written early in my 'fascination' with that fandom**:** _Climb the Wind_, for X-Men. But that was a lot shorter. (Anything over c. 60,000 words is a novel, but there's not much comparison between 83,000 and 320,000.) For anybody interested, this is my 7th fanfic novel, and hands-down, the longest I've _ever_ written, fanfic or original.

Yeah, I think I've been a little obsessed.

**Will there be a sequel?**

That seems to be a popular question. Yes, there will, covering what amounts to Books 6 (_Half-Blood Prince_) and 7 (_Deathly Hallows_). If _Finding Himself_ was a coming-of-age novel, then the sequel will be a war story. The sequel is already in progress, and is titled _**Dulce et decorum est**_. Due to the fact that I'm also involved in continuing the other main Cedric!Lives novel series, _Aorist Subjunctive_, however, it's taking me a lot longer to write the sequel than it took me to write _Finding Himself_. (To find these other novels, please see my website, linked from my profile.)

**What the bloody hell is "parallel canon" anyway?**

I was intrigued by the idea of changing one (fairly major) thing, then seeing how closely I could run a story alongside the events of Book 5. What would Umbridge's reign of terror at Hogwarts look like if Cedric had _lived_? So the goal of the story was to maintain canon as closely as I could, and adding Cedric only added to, rather than significantly altered events.

This is also why Cedric was wounded. I needed to maintain Harry's _emotional_ dynamics as closely as I could, so Cedric couldn't escape the maze unscathed. Furthermore, his wounding had to have a long-term, and serious, impact.

For those who prefer their AUs to be more wildly divergent, my other foray into Cedric!Lives (mentioned above) is of that type**:** _Aorist Subjunctive_. It introduces a major change that consequently throws off everything that follows. So between the novel and novella series, I do believe I've got both ends of the AU spectrum represented.

**Harry and Cedric as Foils**

In her original work, Rowling created Cedric to have two basic purposes, first as a symbol, and second as a foil to Harry. He's the 'other Champion,' Harry's competition for the affection of Cho Chang, and even as early as Book 3, a fellow Seeker who beat Harry to the Snitch. But he's a thoroughly good bloke in the bargain, hard to dislike, as long as one keeps in mind that he's a 2D symbolic foil, not a 3D complex character. For what Rowling needed, that was sufficient. He not only didn't need to be, but _shouldn't_ be very complex.

When I decided to turn him into my protagonist, things obviously had to change, but I wanted to maintain the basic elements of his character as drawn in the books**:** he's a moral person, a good student, and a powerful and capable wizard. Yet I wanted to maintain his function as Harry's foil. As a result, I had a couple of problems to address, as well as some thinking to do. The first and most significant problem became the apparent disconnect between the modest young man we see in the books and somebody who'd put his name in the Goblet of Fire, hoping for "eternal glory." Why would Cedric Diggory do that?

Building an answer was a lot of fun, and I'm somewhat indebted to the performance of Robert Pattinson in _The Goblet of Fire_ film for giving me a few clues. He portrayed Cedric as a delightful mix of genuine niceness (which is not a bad word, you know), quiet charisma, and a charmingly unconscious vanity. I found myself very intrigued. Not everyone who's fortunate in the gene-pool lottery is a spoiled brat. So I wanted to take the Hufflepuff golden boy and turn him into a real person . . . without negating his manifold talents and gifts. Yes, he's crippled, but that serves a plot function other than humanizing him, although it may do that as well. That wasn't why I did it. I resisted giving him some hidden flaw or great childhood tragedy. Cedric has parents who love him, had a happy childhood, and never wanted for anything much.

That doesn't mean his feelings and reactions to experiences can't be empathized with, or that he's somehow inhumanly perfect. He has quite refreshingly normal flaws, needs and fears. Behind "that face" and his perfect-prefect image lies a real human being, one he spends most of the novel trying to uncover . . . and maybe can only do so when all his status and reputation have been stripped away.

In maintaining his status as a foil to Harry, I had to go about it in a different way. He's no longer a symbol. Nonetheless both boys find themselves in opposition to Umbridge and the Ministry, and both have their reputations attacked. Both suffer losses as a result of their impetuousness at the novel's close. Yet they choose to fight back in very different ways. Both are leaders, but different sorts of leaders. Harry excels on the battlefield, so to speak. He's gifted in Defense Against the Dark Arts, able to think on his feet, handle a crisis, and stay firm in the face of opposition.

Cedric _isn't_ particularly quick thinking in a crisis situation, nor especially talented at hexes and curses. Instead he's a diplomat, a magnet for others to rally around, a people-manager and an enthusiastic, charismatic speaker. That's a different sort of gift. As a result, when it came to Umbridge and the events of Book 5, throwing Cedric into the mix created a foil between the two boys yet again, as Cedric is far better suited to handle Umbridge than (hot-headed) Harry.

**Cedric and Hermione**

The pairing of Cedric with Hermione may, unsurprisingly, raise eyebrows. To say it isn't canon is something of an understatement. They never talked in the books (nor film). Hermione does speak of Cedric once, defending him against the twins' derogatory comments, but that's it.

I hope after reading Finding Himself it's clear why I find them to be not only a possible pair, but even a likely one should they ever have had the chance to exchange more than a few words in passing. For those who'd like to know how I came to that conclusion, I addressed the question a while back in a Live Journal entry called "The Lure of Cedric and Hermione."

**Wizarding Art**

My interest in Wizarding art owes to my niece, who's a professional artist. All we ever really seem to find in the books are portraits, but surely that's not the only kind of magical art out there. I had a lot of fun imagining how paintings other than portraits might work, and some of my ideas never made it into the novel because they didn't really belong there. (Authors often know a good deal more about characters and details than they reveal. It's essential for thorough worldbuilding, but not always essential to the story being told.)

Another reason for making Cedric's mother a (well-known) painter is that I'm interested in the children of famous people -- how that can be a burden to bear even if the parents are good ones. Yet another reason that (my) Cedric put his name in the Goblet of Fire was because his mother is Master Painter Lucretia Diggory. He struggles with a sense of inadequacy, despite his mother's attempts to keep him from feeling so.

**The Legend of the Summer King**

The Hunter, Cernunnos and the Summer King are Celtic-British figures that overlap and bleed into one another. Much of the legend is already related in the story itself. It's a fertility tale/rite connected to field cultivation and spring renewal that's found in a variety of world cultures. In ancient Babylon the New Year began in the spring with a festival that, among other things, involved the Sacred Marriage Rite reenacted between the king as Dumuzi and the high priestess as Inanna Descended, in a bed atop the great temple of Esagila (the Tower of Babel, yes).

It would be far too _White Goddess_-ish to suggest this festival is somehow the ancestor of the one employed by the Celts and others. But I do think what we're seeing here is a tendency in human culture to create religious rites to celebrate either natural passages in human life, or cycles of the year. Hence we find -- over and over -- the sex-spring-fertilty-fields/groves parallel. It's not only not much of a leap, but even painfully obvious. So down the centuries, some sort of king-goddess sexual act has been consummated each spring in fields, sacred grottos, or temples.

We know less about the Celtic festivals than we might like, thanks to the Romans, who despite their oddly eclectic civic religion, could persecute quite thoroughly any religion sufficiently different that they regarded it as a _superstitio_ -- a superstition or false religion. That, in ancient times, was "atheism." Few ancient people were religiously tolerant, and intolerance was measured only by how far any given culture was willing to extend the 'sorta like us and so acceptable' noose.

In any case, the basics of the myth are that the Summer (Sun) King, antlered and wreathed with oak, deflowers the Maiden Goddess on Beltane night, impregnating her. At midsummer, he's sacrificed, his blood fertilizing the fields, and the goddess gives birth to him again at midwinter. So we have the ancient cycle of birth, death, and resurrection in the new generation.

_**--Minisinoo**_


	40. Cedric's Poetry, Collected

**Cedric's Collected Poetry**  
**from **_**FINDING HIMSELF**_

* * *

**Helen's Daughter**

**Skin-thrill in touch. Heart-catch and breath held.  
Watch her lips as she drops words, eat them and her mouth both.  
There lies all of her for me to taste.  
She hides in my heart, peeks out and surprises me.  
I dream of futures in kaleidoscope senses.  
Soft conversations and the smell of rain,  
warm hearth-fire nights and summer sun  
caught in leaves and brown hair.  
Laughter and whispers and soft sighs from her hands on me.  
Want lies heavy between my legs. Love lies somewhere else.  
The intangible Real. My body knows only a wall-shadow of that truth,  
but in the shadow is the Form of Beauty.**

**I am in love with Helen's daughter.**

* * *

**I dream of wind swept, swooping turns, fingers stretched in longing --**  
**Freedom eludes me. My wings are clipped, feet jessed.**  
**I fly no more. **

* * *

**There is a rhythm in the hitch of your breath that marks time in the**  
**percussive beat of arousal.**  
**My tongue flutters against slick skin, tasting the sharp, splintering bite of woman spice**  
**and your hips arch against my mouth, kissing me with intimate lips.**

* * *

**Drops of you**  
**fall on me**  
**like the contents of Ceridwen's Cauldron --**  
**soul-opening. But sometimes you cut me**  
**with sharp obsidian eyes**  
**so I flee. Don't follow**  
**or you'll devour me.**

* * *

**Impaled**

**You pierce me piercing you  
and the weight of your hips on my hips sinks me in glossy satin and hot flesh.  
Your breasts round into my palms,  
sweet nipples red like summer strawberries,  
red like the sweet lips above and those below.  
I've kissed both, tasted your salty sharpness on my tongue  
-- quite unlike strawberries --  
and felt you tremble for me.**

**You pierce me piercing you  
and I cry out because the force of this lust and yearning can't be contained inside my chest.  
I am vanquished and you take me prisoner.  
I am surrounded by you and undone,  
shaken-shuddering arching into you, seeking to fly.**

**You pierce me piercing you  
and I will love you like this with mouth and arms and prick and palms and skin and all of me.  
I am splayed open for you to see in a vulnerable tangle of limbs;  
you ride me.  
I am willing broken and tamed in submission to your small hand alone.**

**You pierce me piercing you  
and I would die here, heart-ripped, if I had my choice of dying places.  
One last time before cold earth takes me, I would see lids slide shut over sable eyes  
and the flush steal up from your belly across chest and neck as you come, screaming mute.  
I follow you over, teeth-clenched, toes-curled and my shoulders off the bed,  
bent towards you in supplication.  
I spill inside. The little death.**

**You pierce me piercing you  
and I am the flier falling, sun struck. I am Icarus and you are the sea.  
I drown in you while you bear me up,  
teach me to breathe water.  
You are stronger than I, small and slight in my arms you run like a river,  
wearing away the banks of my isolation.**

**You pierce me piercing you.**  
**I am impaled on love, arms thrown wide.**

* * *


End file.
